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No. 130 




CEisrrrs. 



? 1 CTJq/>/ 



ATRj»W£Eg£ i^ PuBLIC.^TIorf Q^mg B5^TCtJKM^^ llT£K$kTOK£ 


Vol. 8, No. 18<. July 12, ISM. Annual 3up»crlpMon, 


YOLANDE 


WILLIAM BLACK 


AUTHOR OF 

“A PRINCESS OF THULE,” “STRANGE AD- 
VENTURES OF A PHAETON,” Etc. 


ntered at the Post Offloe, N. Y., as second-class matter, 
Copyright. 1883, by John W. Lovell Oo. 



Ji^PiL 


R--^: _j«aBL , _ 

4 neat OLOIH SlUDINQ for this volume can be obtained from aoy bookseller or newsdealer, price IScts 


NHW YORK- 


+ To f\N • W • oV£ L L • COAVPAKY+ 

j- -‘ '= - = 14. t.16 Vg 5 EY ATREE' 



LOVELL’S LIBRARY-CATALOGUE 


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10. Oliver Twist 20 

11. The Coming Race 10 

'12. Leila 10 

13. The Three Spaniards. . .20 

14. The Tricks of the Greeks.20 

15. L’Abbe Constantin 20 

16. Freckles 20 

17. The Dark Colleen 20 

18. They were Married 10 

19. Seekers After God 20 

20. The Spanish Nun 10 

21. Green Mountain Boys.. 20 

22. Fleurette 20 

23. Second Thoughts 20 

24. The New Magdalen ... .20 

25. Divorce 20 

26. Life of Washington 20 

27. Social Etiquette.. 15 

28. Single Heart, Double 

Face 10 

29. Irene ; or. The Lonely 

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Margaret and her Brides- 
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Queen of the County . . .20 

Life of Cromwell 15 

Jane Eyre 20 

Child’sHist’ry of Engl’d. 20 

Molly Bawn 20 

Pillone IS 

Phyllis 20 

Romola, Part 1 15 

Romola, Part II 15 

Science in Short Chapters. 20 

Zanoni 20 

A Daughter of Heth .... 20 
Right and Wrong Uses of 

the Bible 20 

Night and Moming.Pt.I.is 
NightandMorning,Pt.II 15 

Shandon Bells 20 

Monica 10 

Heart and Science 20 

The Golden Calf 20 

The Dean’s Daughter.. .20 

Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

Pickw'ick Papers, Part 1 . 20 
Pickwick Papers,Part II. 20 

Airy, Fairy Lilian 20 

Macleod of Dare 20 

Tempest Tossed, P.art 1 . 20 
Tempest Tossed, P’t 1 1 , 20 
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Gideon Fleyce 20 

India and Ceylon 20 

The Gypsy Queen 20 

The Admiral’s Ward. ... 20 
Nimport, 2 Parts> each ..15 

Harry Holbrooke. 20 

Tritons, 2 Parts, each ..15 
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No New Thing 20 

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More Words about Bible. 20 
Monsieur Lecocq, P’t. 1 . 20 
Monsieur Lecocq, Pt.n<2o 
An Outline of Irish Hist. 10 

The Lerouge Case 20 

Paul Clifford 20 

A New Lease of Life.. .20 

Bourbon Lilies 20 

Other People’s Money.. 20 

Lady of Lyons 10 

Ameline de Bourg 15 

A Sea Queen 20 

The Ladies Lindores. . .20 

Haunted Hearts 10 

Loys, Lord Beresford.i.ao 


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128. Money la 

129. In Peril of His Life 20 

130. India; What can it teach 

us? 20 

131. Jets and Flashes 20 

132. Moonshine and Margue- 
rites 10 

133. Mr. Scarborough's 
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144. 01 dCuriosityShop,P’t 1 . 1$ 
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145. Ivanhoe, Parti. 15 

Ivanhoe, Part II 15 

146. White Wings 20 

147. The Sketch Book 20 

14k Catherine 

149. Janet’s Repentance lo 

150. Bamaby Rudge, Part L. 15 
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15 1. Felix Holt 20 

152. Richelieu ic^ 

153. Sunrise, Part 1 15 

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154. Tour of the World in 80 

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156. Lovel, the Widower. ... 10 

157. Romantic Adventures of 

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159. Charlotte Temple 10 

160. Rienzi, 2 Parts, each ...15 

161. Promise of Marriage .... 10 

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166. 20,000 Leagues Under the 

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167. Anti-Slavery Days 20 

168. Beauty’s Daughters 20 

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1 74. M iddlemarch , 2 Pts . each. 20 

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182. That Beautiful Wretch.. 20 

183. Her Mother’s Sin 20 

184. Green Pastures, etc 20 

xSj. Mysterious Island, Pt l.is 



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HYGIENIC PUBiiiSMING CO., 91 "y Broadway, New York, 
or 4S2 Vail Bureu Strict, Milwaukee, Wis. 

— ..... — ■ — I — 'v ' 


LANDE 



By 

WILLIAM BLACK. 

> > 

Author of “A Princess of Thule,” “Sthange Advkmturks of a Phaeton,’' 
“A DAuanxER of Heth,” Etc. 


NEW YORK: 


JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 AND 16 Vesey Street. 




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YOL ANDE. 


CHAPTER 1. 

RELEASED FROM CHATEAU COLD FLOORS. 

Late one evening in April, in the ]n*iyate sitting-room 
on the first floor of a hotel in Albemarle Street, a member 
of the British House of Commons was lying back in an easy* 
chair, having just begun to read, in an afternoon journal, 
an article about himself. He was a man approaching fifty, 
with what the Scotch call “ a salt-water face ” ; that is to say 
a face tanned and reddened with wind and weather, sharp 
of feature, and with hair become prematurely quite silver 
white. At a first glance he seemed to have the air of an 
imperative, eager, aggressive iierson ; Out that impression 
was modified when by any accident you met his eyes, which 
were nervous, shrinking, and uncertain. Walking in the 
street, he rarely saw any one ; perhaps he was too pre- 
occupied with public affairs ; perhaps he was sensitively 
afraid of not being able to recognize half-remembered faces. 
When sitting alone, slight noises made him start. 

This was what the man with the thin red face and the 
silver white hair was reading : — 

“ By his amendment of last night, which, as every one 
anticipated, was defeated by an overwhelming majority, the 
member for Slagpool has once more called attention to the 
unique position which ho occupies in contemporary jiolitics. 
Consistent only in his hopeless inconsistency, and only to be 
reckoned on for the wholly unexpected, one wonders for 


2 


YOLANDE. 


what particular purpose the electors of Slagj^ool ever thouglit 
of sending Mr. Winterbourne to Parliament, unless, indeed, 
it were to make sure that their town should be sufficiently 
often heard of in the councils of the nation. A politician 
who is at once a furious Jingo in foreign affairs and an ultra- 
revolutionary at home ; an upholder of the divine rights 
and liberties of the multitude, who at the same time would, 
if he could, force them to close every public-house in the 
country, alike on Sunday and Saturday ; a virulent oppo- 
nent of Vivisection, w’ho nevertheless champions the Game 
Laws, and who is doubtful about the Abolition of Capital 
Punishment, probably because he would like to reserve to 
himself tlie right of hanging poachers : it may be conceded 
that such a member of Parliament if he is not to be counted 
on by any party, or by any section or sub-section of any party 
— if, indeed, lie is ordinarily a good deal more dangerous to 
his allies than to his enemies — may at least do some service 
to his constituents by continually reminding the country of 
their existence, while ministering on the same occasions to 
his own inordinate vanity. For it is to this — it is to an in- 
ordinate vanity, spurred on by an irritable and capri- 
cious temper — that we must look for the cause of those 
spasmodic championships and petulant antagonisms, those 
erratic ajipearances and disappearances, those sudden al- 
liances, and incomprehensible desertions, which have made 
of the member for Slagpool the very whirligig and teetotum 
of modern English politics.’’ 

When he had got thus far he stopped. 

“ It sounds like the writing of a young man,” he was 
thinking. “ But perhaps it is true. Perhaps that is what 
I am. like. The public press is a mirror. I wonder if that 
is how I appear to Yolande? ” 

He heard a footstep outside, and immediately thrust 
away the newspaper from him, face downward. The next 
moment the door of the room was opened, and the frame- 
work of the door became the framework of a living picture. 
Mr. Winterbourne’s face lightened up with pleasure. 

The ])icture framed by the doorway was that of a young 
girl of eighteen, singularly tall and strikingly fair, who stood 
there hesitating, timid, half laughing. 

“Look,” she said. “Is it your idea?” 

“ Is it your idea! ” he repeated, peevishly. “ Yolande, 
you are getting worse and worse instead of better. Why 
don’t you say, ‘Is this what you meant?’ ” 


YOLANDE. 


3 


“Is this Avhat you meant?” she said, promptly, and 
witli a sliglit foreign accent. 

His eyes could not dwell on her for two seconds together 
and be vexed. 

“ Come to the mirror, child, and put on your hat, and 
let me see the whole thing properly.” 

Slie did as she was bid, stepping over to the fireplace, 
and standing before the old-fasliioned mirror as she adjus* 
te<l tlie wide-brimmed Rubens liat over tlie ruddy gold of 
her liair. For tliis was an experiment in costume, and it 
had some suggestion of novelty. The plain gown was of a 
uniform cream white, of some rough towel like substance 
that seemed to cling naturally to the tall and graceful 
figure ; and it was touched here and there with black velvet, 
and the tight sleeves had black velvet cuffs ; while the 
white Rubens hat had also a band of black velvet round 
the bold sweep of the brim. For the rest, she wore no 
ornaments but a thick silver necklace round her throat, and 
a plain silver belt round her waist, the belt being a broad 
zone of solid metal, untouched by any graver. 

But any one who had seen this young English girl 
standing there, her arms uplifted, her hands busy with her 
hat, would not have wasted much attention on the details 
of her costume. Her face wuas interesting, even at an age 
when gentleness and sweetness are about the only charac- 
teristics that one ex]wcts to meet with. And although no 
mere catalogue of her features — the calm clear brow ; the 
wide-apart gray-blue eyes ; the aquiline nose ; the unusu- 
ally short uj)per lip and beautiful rounded chin ; her soft 
and wavy hair glistening in its ruddy gold ; and her com- 
plexion, that was in reality excessively fair, only that an 
abundance of freckles, as well as the natural rbse-color 
of youth in her cheeks, spoke of her not being much 
afraid of the sun and of the country air — although no mere 
enumeration of these things is at all likely to explain the 
unnamable grace that attracted peo})le to her, yet there was 
at least one expression of her face that could be accounted 
for. Tliat unusually short upper lip, that has been noted 
above, gave aslight pensive droop to the mouth whenever her 
featiij-es were in repose; so that when she suddeidy looked 
u}) with her wide wondering, timid, and yet trustful 
eyes, there was something pathetic and wistful there. 
It was an ex]»ression absolutely without intention ; it waa 
inexplicable, and also winning; it seemed to convey a sort 


4 


YOLANDE. 


of involuntnry unconscious appeal for gentleness and friend- 
ship, but beyond that it had no significance whatsoever. It 
had nothing to do witli any sorrow, suffered or foreshadowed. 
So far the girls existence had been passed among the roses 
and lilies of life ; the only serious grievance she had ever 
known was the winter coldness of the floors in the so-called 
chateau in Brittany where she had been educated. And 
now she was emancipated from the discipline of the Chateau 
Cold Floors, as she had named the place ; and the world 
was fair around her ; and every day was a day of gladness 
to her from the first “Good-morning” over the breakfast 
table to the very last of all the last and lingering “ Good- 
nights ” that had to be said before she would let her father 
go down to put in an appearance at the House. 

This must be admitted about Yolande Winterbourne, 
however, that she had two very distinot manners. With 
her friends and intimates she was playful, careless, and not 
without a toucli of humorous wilfulness ; but with stran- 
gers, and especially with strangers abroad, she could assume 
in the most astonishing fashion the extreme coldness and 
courtesy of an English miss. Remember, she was tall, fair, 
and English-looking ; that, w'hen all the pretty, timid trust- 
fulness and merriment were out of them, her eyes were wide 
apart and clear and contemplative ; and further, that the 
good dames of the Chateau Cold Flood's had instructed her 
as to how she should behave when she went travelling with 
her father, wdiich happened pretty often. At tlie table 
d hote^ with her father present, she was as light-hearted, as 
talkative, as pleasant as any one could wdsh. In the music- 
roorn after dinner, or on the deck of a steamer, or anywhere, 
with her father by accident absent, she was the English 
miss out and out, and no aside conversations w'ere possible. 
“ So proud, so reserved, so English,” thought many an 
impressionable young foreigner who had been charmed with 
the bright, variable, vivacious face as it had regarded him 
aci'oss the white table cover and the flowers. Yolande’s 
face could become very calm, even austere on occasion. 

“ Is it what you meant ? ” siie repeated, turning to him 
from the mirror. Her face was bi-ight enough now. 

“Oh, yes,” said he, r.ather reluctantly. “I — I thought 
it would suit you. But you see, Yolande, — you see — it is 
very pretty — but for London — to drive in the Park — in 
London — wouldn’t it be a little conspicuous ? ” 


YOLANDE. 5 

Her eyes were filled with astonishment , his rather wan- 
dered away nervously to the table. 

“But, papa, I don’t understand you ! Everywhere else 
you are always wishing me to wear the brightest and 
lightest of colors. I may wear what I please — and that is 
only to please you, that is what I care about only — any 
where else : if we are going for a walk along the Lung 
Arno, or if we go for a drive in the Prater, yes, and at Oat* 
land Park, too, I can not please you with enough bright 
colors ; but here in London the once or twice of my 
visits — ” 

“Do speak English, Yolande,” said he, sharlply 
“ Don t hurry so.” 

“The once or twice I am in London, oh, no ! Every- 
thing is too conspicuous ! Is it the smoke, papa. And this 
time I was so anxious to please you ! — all your own ideas ; 
not mine at all. But what do I care ? ” She tossed the 
Rubens hat on to the couch that was near, “ Come ! What 
is there about a dress ? It will do for some other place, 
not so dark and smoky as London. Come — sit down papa 
— you do not wish to go away to the House yet ! You have 
not finished about Godfrey of Bouillon.” 

“ I am not going to read any more Gibbon to you to- 
night, Yolande,“ said he ; but he sat down, all the same in 
the easy-chair, and she placed herself on the hearthrug be- 
fore him, so that the soft ruddy gold of her hair touched his 
knees. It was a pretty head to stroke. 

“ Oh, do you think I am so anxious about Gibbon, then ? ” 
slie said, lightly, as she settled herself into a comfortable 
position. “ No. Not at all. I do not want any more Gib- 
bon. I want you. And you said this morning there would 
be nothing but stupidity in the House to-night.” 

“ Well, now. Miss Inveigler, just listen to this,” said he, 
laying hold of her by both her small ears. “ Don’t you think 
it prudent of me to show up as often as I can in the House — 
especially when there is a chance for a division — so that my 
good friends in Slagpool mayn’t begin to grumble about my 
being away so frequently? And why am I away ? Why do 
I neglect my duties Why do I let the British Empire glide 
on to its doom ? Why, but that I may take a wretched, 
schoolgirl — a wretched, small-brained impertinent, prattling 
schoolgirl — for her holidays, and show her things she can’t 
understand and plough through museums and picture- 
galleries to filla mind that is no better than a sieve? Just 


6 


YOLANDE. 


tliink of it. The British Empire going headlong to tlie mis« 
chief all for the sake of an empty-headed schoolgirl ! ” 

“ Do you know, j apa, I am very glad to hear that,” she 
said, quietly. 

“ Glad are you ? ” 

“ Yes,” said she, nestling closer to him ; “ for now I 
think my dream will soon be coming true.” 

“ Your dream ? ” 

“ My dream — the ambition of my life,” said she, serious- 
ly. “ It is all I wish for and hope for. Nothing else — noth- 
ing else in the world.” 

“ Bless us all ! ” said he, with a touch of irony. “ What 
wonderful ambition is this? ” 

‘‘ It is to make myself indispensable to you,” she said, 
sim])ly. 

He took his hand from her ears and put them on her hair, 
for there were some bits of curls and semi-ringlets about her 
neck that wanted smoothing. 

“ You are not indis])ensable, then?” said he. 

“ Listen now, papa ; it is your turn,” she said. “ Surdly 
it is a shame that you hav^e wasted so much time on me, 
through so many years, always coming to sec me and take 
me away, perhaps not a week between, and I am glad enough, 
for it was always expectation and expectation, and my things 
always ready, and you, poor papa, wasting all your time, 
and always on the route ; and that such a long way to 
Rennes. Even at Oatlands Park the same — up and down, 
up and down, by rail, and then long beautiful days that were 
very good to me, but Avere stupid to you when you were 
thinking of the House all the time. Very well, now, papa; 
I have more sense now; I have been thinking: I want 
to be indispensable to you ; I want to be in London with 
you always ; and you shall never have to run away idling, 
either to the Continent or to Oatlands Park ; and you shall 
never have to think that I am wearying for you, when I am 
always with you in London. That is it now ; that I wish 
to be your private secretary.” 

Her demand once made, she turned up her face to him ; 
he averted his eyes. 

“No, no, Yolande,”he said, hastily, and even nervously. 
“ London won’t do for you ; it — it wouldn’t do at all. Don’t 
think of it even.” 

“ P.ipa,” said she, “ what other member of Parliament, 
with so much business as you have, is Avithout a private 


YOLANDE. 


1 


scci-etary ? Why should you answer all those letters your 
self? For me, 1 will learn politics very quickly; 1 am 
studying liard ; at the chateau I translated all your speechea 
i?)to Italian for exercises. And just to think that you have 
never allowed me to hear you speak in the House ! When 
I come to London — yes, for five minutes or half an hour at 
a time — the ladies whom I see will not believe that I have 
never once been in the — the what is it called ? — for the 
ladies to listen in the House? No, they cannot believe it. 
Tiiey know all the speakers ; they have heard all the great 
men ; they spend the whole of the evening there, and have 
many come to see them — all in politics. Well, you see, 
papa, what a burden it would be taking off your hands. 
You would not always have to come home and dine with 
me, and waste so much of the evening in reading to me — no, 
I should be at the House, listening to you, and understand- 
ing everything. Then all the day here, busy with your 
lettei-s. Oh, I assure you I would make prettier complb 
ments to your constituents than you could think of ; I 
would make all the people of Slagpool who write to you 
think you were the very best member they could choose. 
And then — then I should be indispensable to you.” 

“ You are indispensable to me, Yoknde. You are my 
life. What else do I care for? ” he said, hurriedly. 

“ You will pardon me, papa, if I say it is foolish. Oh, to 
think now ! One’s life is more important than that, when 
you hav<3 the country to guard.” 

“ They seem to think there,” said he, with a sardonic 
smile, and he glanced at the new^spaper, “that the country 
would be better off without me.” 

It was too late to recall this unfortunate speech. He 
had thrust aside the new^spaper as she entered, dreading 
that by accident she might see the article, and be wounded 
by it ; but now there was no help for it : the moment he 
had spoken she reached over and took up the journal, and 
found her father’s name staring her in the face. 

“Is it true, Yolande ? ” said he, with a laugh. “Is that 
what I am like ? ” 

As she read, Yolande tried to be grandly indifferent — 
even contemptuous. Was it for her, who wdshed to be of 
assistance to her father in public affairs, to mind what was 
said about him in a leading article ? And then, in spite of 
herself, tears slowly rose and filled the soft gray-blue eyes, 
though she kept her head down, vainly trying to hide them 


YOLANDE. 


8 

And then mortifi^jation at her weakness made her angry, 
and she crushed up the paper twice and thrice, and hurled 
it into the fire ; nay, she seized hold of the poker and thrust 
and drove the offending journal into the very heart of the 
coals. And then slie rose, proud and indignant, but with 
her eyes a little wet, and with a toss of her pretty head, she 
said : — 

“ It is enough time to waste over such folly. Perhaps 
the poor man has to support a family ; but he need not 
write such stupidity as that. Now, papa, what shall I play 
for you ? ” 

She was going to the piano. But he had risen also. 

“No, no, Yolande. I must be off to the House. There 
is just a chance of a division ; and perhaps I may be able to 
get in a few words somewhere, just to show the Slagpool 
people that I am not careering about the Continent with my 
sclioolgirl. No, no; I will see you safe in your room, 
Yolande; and your lamp lit, and everything snug: then — 
good-night.” 

“ Already ? ” she said, with a great disappointment in 
her face. “ Already ? ” 

“ Child, child, the affairs of this mighty empire — ” 

“ What do I care about the empire ! ” she said. 

He stood and regarded her calmly. 

“ You are a nice sort of a person to wish to be private 
secretary to a member of Parliament ! ” 

“ Oh, but if you will only sit down for five minutes, 
papa,” she said, piteously, “ I could explain such a lot to 
you — ” 

“ Oh yes, I know. I know very well. About the tem- 
per rnadame was in when the curls fell out of her box.” 

“Papa, it is you who make me frivolous. I wish to be 
serious — ” 

“ I am going, Yolande.” 

She interposed : 

“ No. Not until you say, ‘ I love you.’ ” 

“ I love you.” 

“ ‘ And I forgive you.’” 

“ And I forgive you.” 

“ Everything ? ” 

“ Everything.” 

“ And I may go out to-morrow morning, as early as ever 
I like, to buy some flowers for the breakfast table? ” 

But this w^as hard to grant. 


YOLANDE. 


9 


“I don I like your going out by yourself, Tolande,” said 
he, rather hesitatingly. “You can order flowers. You' 
can ring and tell the waiter — ” 

“ The waiter ! ” she exclaimed. “ What am I of use for 
tlien, if it is a waiter who will choose flowers for your break- 
fast table, papa ? It is not far to Convent Garden.” 

“ Take Jane with you, then.” 

“Oh yes.” 

So that was settled ; and he went upstairs with her to 
see that her little silver reading-lamp was properly lit ; and 
then he bade her the last real good-night. When he returned 
to the sitting-room for his hat and coat there was a pleased 
and contented look on his face. 

“ Poor Yolande ! ” he was thinking ; “ she is more shut 
up here than in the country ; but she will soon have the 
liberty of Oatlands Park again.” 

He had just put on his coat and hat, and was giving a 
last look round the room to see if there was anything he 
ought to take with him, when there was a loud, sharp crash 
at the window. A hundred splinters of glass fell on to the 
floor; a stone rolled over and over to the fireplace. He 
seemed bewildered only for a second ; and perhaps it was 
the startling sound that had made his face grow suddenly 
of a deadly pallor; the next second — noiselessly and quickly 
— he had stolen from the room, and was hurriedly descend 
ing the stair to the hall of the hotel. 


CHAPTER II. 

THE SHADOW BEHIND. 

The head waiter was in the hall, alone, and staring out 
through the glass door. When he heard some one behind 
him he turned quickly, and there was a vague alarm in his 
fee 

“ The — the lady, sir, has been here again.” 

Mr. Winterbourne paid no heed to him, passed him 
hastily, and went out. The lamplight showed a figure 
standing there on the pavement — the figure of a tall woman, 
dark and pale, who had a strange, dazed look in her eyes. 


10 


YOLANDE. 


I thought TVl bring you out ! ” she said tauntingly, and 
with a slight laugh. 

“ What do you want?” he said, quickly, and under his 
})rcath. “ Have you no shame, woman ? Come away. 
Tell me what you want.” 

“ You know what I want,” she said sullenly. “ I want 
no more lies.” Then an angrier light blazed up in the im- 
passive, emaciated face. “ Who has driven me to it, if I 
have to break a window ? I want no more lies and hidings. 
I \vant you to keep your promise ; and if I have to break 
every window in the House of Commons, I will let every- 
body know. Whose fault is it ? ” 

But her anger seemed to die away as rapidly as it had 
arisen. A dull, vague, absent look returned to her face. 

“ It is not my fault.” 

“ What madness have you got hold of now ? ” he said, 
in the same low and nervous voice; and all his anxiety 
seemed to be to get her away from the hotel. “ Come 
along and tell me what you want. You want me to keep 
my promise — to you, in this condition?” 

“ It is not my fault,” she repeated, in a listless kind of 
way ; and now she was quite obediently and peaceably 
following him, and he was walking toward Piccadilly, his 
head bent down. 

“ I suppose I can guess who sent you,” he said, watch- 
ing her narrowly. *‘1 suppose it was not for nothing you 
came to make an exhibition of yourself in the public streets. 
They asked you to go and get some money ? ” 

This seemed to put a new idea into her head ; perhaps 
that had been his intent. 

“ Yes. I will take some money if you like,” she said, 
absently. “ They are my only friends now — my only 
friends. They have been kind to me ; they don’t cheat me 
with lies and promises ; they don’t put me off and turn me 
away when I ask for them. Yes, I will take them some 
money.” 

And then she laughed — a short, triumphant laugh. 

“ I discovered the way to bring some one out,” she 
said, apparently to herself. 

By this time they had reached the corner of Piccadilly, 
and as a four-wheeled cab happened to be passing, he 
8top]>ed it, and himself opened the door. She made no re- 
monstrance ; she seemed ready to do anything he wished. 

“ Here is some money. I will pay the driver.” 


rOLANDE. 


11 


She got into the cab quite submissively and the man was 
given the address, and paid. Then the vehicle was drivei 
off, and he was left standing on the pavement, still some- 
wliat bewildered, and not conscious how his hands were 
trembling. 

He stood uncertain only for a second or so ; then he 
walked rapidly back to tlie hotel. 

Has Miss Winterbourne’s maid gone to bed yet ?” :ie 
asked of the landlady. 

“ Oh no, sir ; I should think not sir,” the buxom person 
answered : she did not observe that his face was pale and 
his eyes nervous. 

“ Will you please tell her, then, that we shall be going 
down to Oatlands Park again to-morrow morning? She 
must have everything ready, but she is not to disturb Miss 
Winterbourne to-night.” 

“ Very well, sir.” 

Then he went into the coffee-room, and found the head 
waiter. 

“ Look here,” said he (with his eyes averted) ; “ I sup- 
pose you can get a man to put a pane of glass in the window 
of our sitting-room — tlie first thing in the morning ? There 
lias been some accident, I suppose. You can have it done 
before Miss Winterbourne comes down, I mean ? ” 

He slipped a sovereign into the waiter’s hand. 

“ I think so, sir. Oh yes, sir.” 

“ You must try to have it done before Miss Winter- 
bourne comes down.” 

He stood fora moment, apparently listening if there was 
any sound upstairs ; and then he opened the door again 
and went out. Very slowly he walked away through the 
lamp-lit streets, seeing absolutely nothing of the passers-by, 
or of the rattling cabs and caiiriages : and although he bent 
his steps Westminister-ward, it was certainly not the affairs 
of the nation that liad hold of his mind. Rather he was 
thinking of that beautiful fair young life — tliat young life 
BO carefully and tenderly cherished and guarded, and all 
unconscious of this terrible black shadow behind it. The 
irony of it ! It was this very night that Yolande had 
chosen to reveal to him her seci-et hopes and ambition : she 
was to be always with him : she was to be “ indispensable ” ; 
the days of her banishment were to be now left behind ; and 
these two, father and daughter, were to be inseparable com- 
panions henceforth and forever. And his reply ? As he 


YOLANDE. 


12 

walked along the haxf-deserted pavements, anxiously revolv- 
mg many things, and dreaming many dreams about what the 
future might have in store for her, and regarding the trouble 
and terrible care that haunted his own life, the final sum- 
ming up of all his doubts and fears resolved itself into this ; 
If only Yolande were married ! The irony of it! She had 
besought him, out of her love for him, and out of her grati- 
tude for his watchful and unceasing care of her, that she 
should be admitted into a closer companionship ; that she 
should become his constant attendant, and associate, and 
friend; and his answer was to propose to hand lier over to 
another guardianship altogether — the guardianship of a 
stranger. If only Yolande were married! 

The light was burning on the clock tower, and so he 
knew the House was still sitting ; but he had no longer any 
intention of joining in any debate that might be going for- 
ward. When he passed into the House (and more than 
ever he seemed to wish to avoid the eyes of strangers) it 
was to seek out his friend John Shortlands, whose rough 
common-sense and blunt counsel had before now stood him 
in good stead and served to brace up his unstrung nerves. 
The tall, corpulent, big-headed iron-master — who also rep- 
resented a northern constituency — he at length found in the 
smoking-room, with two or three companions, who were 
seated round a small table, and busy with cigars and brandy 
and soda. Winterbourne touched his friend lightly on the 
shoulder. 

“ Can you come outside for a minute ? ” 

“■ All right.” 

It was a beautiful, clear, mild night, and seated on the 
benches on the Terrace there were several groups of people 
— among them two or three ladies, who had no doubt been 
glad to leave the stuffy Chamber to have tea or lemonade 
brought tliem in the open, the while they chatted with their 
friends, and regarded the silent, dark river and the lights of 
the Embankment and Westminster Bridge. As Winter- 
bourne passed them, he could not but think of Yolande’s 
complaint that she had never even once been in the House 
of Commons. These were, no doubt, the daughters of wives 
or sisters of’ members: why should not Yolande also ha 
sitting tlmre ? It would have been pleasant for him to come 
out and talk to her — pleasanter than listening to a dull de- 
bate. Would Yolande have wondered at the strange night 
picture — the broad black river, all quivering with golden 


YOLANDE. 


13 


reflections ; the lights on the bridge ; the shadowy grandeur 
of this great building reaching far overhead into the starlit 
skies? Others were there; why not she? 

The Terrace of the House of Commons is at night a 
somewhat dusky promenade, when there does not happen 
to be moonlight; but John Shortlands had sharp eyes; and 
he instantly guessed from his friend’s manner that something 
had happened. 

“ More trouble ? ” said he, regarding him. 

“Yes,” said the other. “Well, I don’t mind — I don’t 
mind, as far as I am concerned. It is no new thing.” 

But he sighed, in spite of his resigned way of speech. 

“ I have told you all along. Winterbourne, that you 
brought it on yourself. You should ha’ taken the bull by 
the horns.” 

“ It is too late to talk of it — never mind that now,” he 
said, impatiently. “ It is about Yolande I want to speak 
to you.” 

“ Yes? ” 

Tlien he hesitated. In fact, his lips trembled for the 
briefest part of a second. 

“You won’t guess what I am anxious for now,” he said, 
with a sort of uncertain laugli. “ You wouldn’t guess it in 
amonth, Shortlands. lam anxious to see Yolande married.” 

“ Faith, that needn’t trouble you,” said the big iron- 
master, bluntly. “ There’ll be no difficulty about that. 
Yolande has grown into a thundering handsome girl. And 
they say,” he added, jocosely, “ that her father is ’pretty 
well off.” 

Tiiey were walking up and down slowly ; Mr. Winter 
bourne’s face absent and hopeless at times, at times almost 
piteous, and again lightening up as he thought of some 
brighter future for his daughter. 

“ She can not remain any longer at school,” he said at 
length, “ and I don’t like leaving her by herself at Oatlaiids 
Park or any similar place. Poor child ! Do you know 
what her own plans are ? She wants to be my private 
secretary. She wants to share the life that I have been lead- 
ing' all these years.” 

“ And so she might have done, my good fellow, if there 
had been any common-sense amrng the lot o’ye.” 

“ It is too late to speak of that now,” the other repeated, 
with a sort of nervous fretfulness. “ But indeed it is hard 
oil the poor girl. She seems to have been thinking seri* 


14 


YOLANDE, 


ously about it. And she and I have been pretty close com- 
paniona, one way or another, of late years. Well, if 1 
could only see her safely married and settled — perhaps 
living in the country, whei’e I could run down fora day oi 
so — her name not mine — iierhapa with a young family 
to occupy her and make lier happy — well, then, I think 
I should be able to put uj) with the loss of my pri- 
vate secretary. I wonder what she will say wlicn I 
pro])ose it. She will be disappointed. Perhaps she will 
think I don’t care for her — when there is just not another 
creature in tlve world I do care for; she may think it cruel 
and unnatural.” 

“Nonsense, nonsense, man. Of course a girl like 
Yolande will get married. Your private secretary! How 
long would it last ? Does she look like the sort of girl who 
ought to be smothered up in correspondence or listening to 
debates? And if you’re in such a mighty hurry to get rid 
of her — if you want to get her married at once — I’ll tell you 
a safe and sure way — send her for a voyage on board a P. 
and O. steamer.” 

But this was just somewhat too blunt ; and Yolande’s 
father said, angi-ily, — 

“I don’t want to get rid of her. And I am not likely 
to send her anywhere. Hitherto we have travelled together, 
and we have found it answer well enough, I can tell you. 
Yolande isn’t a bale of goods, to be disposed of to the first 
Didder. If it comes to that, perhaps she will not marry any 
one.”* 

“Perhaps,” said the other, calmly. 

I don’t know that I may not throw Slagpool over 
and quit the country altogether,” he exclaimed, with a 
momentary recklessness, “Why shouldn’t I? Yolande 
is fond of travelling. She has been four times across the 
Atlantic now. She is the best companion I know ; I tell 
you I don’t know a better companion. And I am sick of 
ti)c way tliey’re going on here.” (He nodded in the direc- 
tion of the House.) “ Government ? They don’t govern ; 
they talk. A Parliamentary victory is all they think about, 
and the country going to the mischief all the time. No 
matter, if they get their majority, and if they can pose before 
tlie world as vlie most moral and exemplary government 
that ever existed. I wonder they don’t give up Gibraltar 
to Spain, and hand over Malta to Italy ; and then they 
ought to let Ireland go because she wants to go ; and cer- 


YOLANDE, 


15 


tainly they ought to yield up India, for India was stolen ; 
and tlien they might reduce the army and the navy, to set 
an example of disarmament, so that at last the world might 
see a spectacle — a nation permitted to exist by other na- 
tions because of its uprightness and its noble sentiments. 
Well, that has nothing to do with Yolande, except that I 
think she and I could get on A^ery well even if we left Eng- 
land to pursue its course of high morality. We could look 
on — and laugh, as the rest of the world are doing.” 

“ My dear fellow,” said Shorthands, Avho had listened 
to all this high treason with calmness, “ you could no more 
get on without the excitement of worrying the Govern- 
ment than Avithout meat and drink. What Avould it 
come to? You Avould be in Colorado, let us say, and 
some young fellow in Denver, come in from the plains, 
Avonld suddenly discover that Yolande Avould be an adorn- 
ing feature for his ranch, and she Avould discover that he 
was the handsomest young gentleman she ever saAV, and 
then Avdiere Avould you be? You wouldn’t be much good 
at a ranch. The morning papers Avould look tremendously 
empty Avithout the usual protest against the honorable 
member for Slagpool so grossly misrepresenting the ac- 
tion of the Government. My good felloAv, we can’t do 
AV’ithout you in the House ; we might as Avell try to do with- 
out the Speaker.” 

For a few seconds they Avalked up and doAvn in silence; 
at last Winterbourne said, Avlth a sigh, — 

“Well, I don’t know what may happen; but in the 
meantime I think I shall take Yolande away for another 
long trip someAvdiere — ” 

“ Again ? Already ? ” 

“I don’t care Avhere ; but the moment I find myself on 
tJie deck of a ship, and Yolande beside me, then I feel as if 
all care had dropped aAvay from me. I feel safe ; I can 
breathe freely. Oh, by the way, I meant to ask if you 
knew anything of a Colonel Graham ? You have been so 
often to Scotland shooting. I thought you might know.” 

But there are so many Grahams.” 

“ Inverstroy, I think, is the name of his place.” 

“ Oh, that Graham. Yes, I should think so — a lucky 
beggar. Inverstroy fell plump into his hands some three 
or four years ago, quite unexpectedly — one of the finest 
estates in Inverness-shire. I don’t think India will see him 
again.” 


16 


YOLANDE. 


“ His wife seems a nice sort of woman,” said Mr. Win- 
tcrbourne, with the slightest toucli of interrogation. 

“ I don’t know her. She is his second wife. She is a • 
dangliter of Lord Lynn.” 

“ They are down at Oatlands just now. Yolande has 
made their acquaintance, and they have been very kind to 
her. Well, this Colonel Graham was saying the other 
evening that he felt as though he had been long enough in 
the old country, and would like to take a P. and O. trip 
as far as Malta, or Suez, or Aden, just to renew his ac- 
quaintance with the old route. In fact, they proposed that 
Yolande and I should join them.” 

“ The very thing ! ” said John Shortlands, facetiously. 

“ Wliat did I say ? A P. and O. voyage will marry olf 
anybody who is willing to marry.” 

“I meant nothing of the kind,” said the other, some- 
what out of temper ; “ Yolande may not marry at all. If I 
went with these friends, of hers, it would not be ‘to get 
rid of her,’ as you say ” 

“ My dear fellow, don’t quarrel with me,” said his 
friend, with more consideration than was habitual with 
him. “ I really understand your position very well. You 
wish to sec Yolande married and settled in life and re- 
moved from — from certain possibilities. But you don’t 
like the sacrifice, and I don’t wonder at th.at ; I admit it 
will be rather rough on you. But it is the way of the 
world : other people’s daughters get married. Indeed, 
Winterbourne, I think it would be better for both of you. 
You would have less anxiety. And I hope, she’ll find a 
young fellow who is worthy of^.her ; for she is a thunder- 
ing good girl: that’s what I think : and whoever he is, 
he’ll get a prize, though I don’t imagine you will bo over 
well disposed toward him, old chap.” 

“If Yolande is happy, that will be enough for me,” said 
the other, absently, as Big Ben overhead began to toll the 
liour of twelve. 

By this time the Terrace was quite deserted; and after 
some little further chat ( Mr. Winterbourne had lost much 
of his nervousness now and of course all his talking was 
about Yolande, and her ways, and her liking for travel, and 
her anxiety to get rid of her half-French accent, and so 
forth ) they turned into the House, where they separated. 
Winterbourne taking his seat below the gangway on the 
Government side, Jolm Shortlands depositing Ins magnifi- 
oent bulk on one of the Opposition benches. 


yOLANDE. 


17 


There was a general hum of conversation. There was 
also, as presently api)eared, some laborious discourse going 
forward on the part of a handsome-looking elderly gentle- 
man — a gentleman who, down in the country, was known 
to be everything that an Englishman could wish to be : an 
efficient magistrate, a plucky rider to hounds, an admirable 
liusband and father, and a firm believer in the Articles of the 
Church of England. Unhappily, alas ! he had acquired some 
other beliefs. He had got it into his head that he was an ora- 
tor ;and as he honestly did believe that talking was of value 
to the state, that it was a builder up and maintainer of empire, 
he was now most seriously engaged in clothing some rather 
familiar ideas in long and Latinized phrases, the while the 
House murmured to itself about its own affairs, and the 
Sj^eaker gazed blankly into space, and the reporters in the 
gallery thought of their courting days, or of their wives and 
children, or of their supper, and wondered when they were 
to get home to bed. The speech had a half-somnolent effect ; 
and those who were so inclined had an excellent opportunity 
for the dreaming of dreams. 

What dreams, then, were likely to visit the brain of the 
member for Slagpool, as he sat there with his eyes distraught ? 
His getting up some fateful evening to move a vote of want 
of confidence in tlie Government ? . His appearance on the 
platform of the Slagpool Mechanics’ Institute, with the great 
mass of people rising and cheering and waving their hand- 
kerchiefs ? Or perhaps some day — for who could tell what 
changes the years might bring — his taking his place on the 
Treasury Bench there ? 

He had got hold of a blue-book. It was the Report of 
a Roya.1 Commission ; but of course all the cover of the folio 
volume was not printed over — there were blank spaces. 
And so, while those laborious and ponderous sentences were 
being poured out to inattentive ears, the member for Slag- 
pool began idly and yet thoughtfully to pencil certain letters 
up at one corner of the blue cover. He was a long time 
about it ; perhaps he saw pictures as he slowly and contem- 
platively formed each letter ; perhaps no one but himself 
could have made out what the uncertain pencilling meant. 
But it was not of politics he was thinking. The letters that 
he had faintly pencilled therg — that he was still wistfully 
regarding as though they could show him things far away 
— formed the word YOLANDE. It was like a lover. 


YOLANDE. 




CHAPTER III. 

PREPARATIONS FOR FLIGHT. 

Next morning his nervous anxiety to got Yolande 
away at once out of London was almost pitiful to witness, 
though he strove as well as he could to conceal it from her. 
He had a hundred excuses. Oatlands -was becoming very 
pretty at that time of the year. There was little of impor- 
tance going on in the House. London was not good for 
the roses in her cheeks. He himself would be glad of a 
breather up St. George’s Hill, or a quiet stroll along to 
Chertsey. And so forth, and so forth. 

Yolande was greatly disappointed. She had been secretly 
nursing the hope that at last she might be allowed to remain 
in London, in some capacity or another, as the constant 
companion of her father. She had enough sense to see that 
the time consumed in his continually coming to stay with 
her in the country must be a serious thing for a man in 
public life. She was in a dim sort of way afraid that these 
visits might become irksome to him, even although he him- 
self should not be awmre of it. Then she had her ambitions 
too. She had a vague impression that the country at large 
did not quite understand and appreciate her father ; that 
the people did not know him as she knew him. How could 
they, if he were to be forever forsaking his public duties in 
order to gadabout with a girl just left school? Never 
before, Yolande vsms convinced, had the nation such urgent 
need of his services. There were a great many things 
wrong w'hich he could put right; of that she had no man- 
ner of doubt. The Govei’nment was making a tyrannical 
use of a big majority to go their own way, not heeding the 
warnings and protests of independent members ; this 
amongst many other things ought to be attended to. And 
it was at such a time, and just when she had revealed to 
him hci* secret aspiration that she might perhaps becomo' 
his private secretary, that he must needs tell her to pack 
u]), and insist on quitting London with her. Yolande could 
not understand it; but she was a biddable and obedient kind 


YOLANDh. 


IV; 


of creature ; and so she took lier place in tlu four-wliceled 
cal) williout any word of complaint. 

And yet, when once they were really on their way 
from London — when the raihy ay-carriage was fairly out of 
the station — her father’s manner seemed to gain so much 
in cheerfulness that she could hardly be sorry they had left. 
She had not noticed that he had been more anxious and 
nervous that morning than usual; but she could not fail to 
remark how much brighter his look was now they were out 
in the clearer air. And when Yolande saw her father’s 
eyes light up like this — as they did occasionally — she w.as 
apt to forget about the injury that was being done to the 
alfairs of the empire. They had been much together, these 
two ; and anything appertaining to him was of keen 
interest to her; whereas the country at large was some- 
thing of an abstraction ; .and the mechanical majority of 
the Government — for which she had a certain measure of 
contempt — little more than a name. 

“ Yolande,” said lie (they had the compartment to 
themselves), “ I had a talk with John Shortlands last 
night.” 

“Yes, papa?” ^ 

“ And if England slept well from th.at time until this 
morning it was because she little knew the f.ate in store for 
her. Think of this, child : I have threatened to throw up 
my place in Parliament altogether, letting the country go 
to the mischief if it liked ; and then the arrangement would 
be that you and I, Yolande — now just consider this — that 
you and I should start away together and roam all over 
the world, looking at everything, and amusing ourselves, 
going just where we liked, no one to interfere with us — you . 
and I all by ourselves — now, Yolande ! ” 

Slie had clasped her hands with a quick dedght. 

“Oh, papa, that would indeed — ” 

But she stopped ; and instantly her face grew grave 
again. 

“ Oh no,” she said, “ no ; it would not do. Last night, 
papa, you were repro.achful of me — ” 

“ ‘ Reproachful of me ! ’ ” he repeated, mockingly. 

“ Re})roachful to me ? ” she said, with inquiring eyes. 
But he himself w.as not ready with the correct phrase ; and 
so she went on: “Last night you were reproachful that I 
liad taken iq; so much of your time ; and though it was all 
in fun, still it was true ; and now I am no longer a school 


20 


VOLAA^DR. 


girl ; and I wish to help you if I can, and not be merely 
tiresome and an incumbrance — ” 

“You are so much of an incumbrance, Yolande ! ” he 
said, with a laugh. 

“Yes,” slie said, gravely, “you would tire of me if we 
went away like that. In time you would tire. One would 
tire of always being amused. All the people that we see 
have work to do ; and some day — it might be a long time 
— but some day you would think of Parliament, and you 
would think you had given it up for me — ” 

“ Don’t make such a mistake ! ” said he. “ Do not 
consider yourself of such importance, miss. If I threw 
over Slagpool, and started as a Wandering Jew — I mean 
we should be two Vfandering Jews, you know, Yolande — 
it would be quite as miich on my own account as yours — ” 
“You would become tired of being amused. You 
could not always travel,” she said. She put her hand on 
his hand. “ Ah, I see what it is,” she said, with a little 
laugh. “ You are concealing. That is your kindness, papa. 
You think I am too much alone ; it is not enough that you 
sacrifice to-day, tb-morrow, next day, to me; you wish to 
make a sacri tice altogether ; and you pretend you are tired 
of politics. But you can not make me blind to it. I see — 
oh, quite clearly I can see through your pretence ! ” 

He was scarcely listening to lier now. 

“ I suppose,” he said, absently, “ it is one of those fine 
things that are too fine ever to become true. Fancy aiow, 
the two of us just wandering away wherever we pleased, 
resting a day, a week, a month, when we came to some 
beautiful place — all by ourselves in the wide world ! ” 

“ I have often noticed that, papa,” she said — “ that you 
like to talk about being away, about being remote — ” 

“But we should not be like the Wandering Jew in one 
respect,” ho said, almost to himself. “ The years would 
tell. There would be a difference. Something might 
happen to one of us.” 

And then, apparently, a new suggestion entered his 
mind. He glanced at the girl opposite him, timidly and 
anxiously. 

“ Yolande,” said he, “I — I wonder now — I suppose at 
your age — well, have you ever thought of getting married ?” 

She looked up at him with her clear, frank eyes, and 
when she was startled like that her mouth had the slight 


YOLANDE, 


21 




pathetic droop, already noticed, that made her face so sen- 
sitive and cliarming. 

“ Why, hundreds and hundreds and hundreds of times 
slie exclaimed, still 'with the soft clear eyes wondering. 

Ills e3'^es were turned away. He appeared to attach no 
importance to this confession. 

“ Of course,” she said, “ when 1 say I have thought 
hundreds of times of getting married, it is about not get- 
ting married that I mean. No. That is my resolution. 
Oh, many a time I have said that to myself. I shall not 
marry — never — no one.” 

In sj)ite of himself his face suddenly brightened up, and 
it was quite cheerfully that lie went on to saj^: — 

“ Oh, but, Yolande, that is absurd. Of course you will 
marry. Of course you must marry. 

“ When you put me awa^", papa.” 

“ When I put you away,” he repeated, with a laugh. 

“Yes,” she continued, quite simply. “That was what 
Madame used to say. She used to say, ‘ If your papa mar- 
ries again, that is what \mu must expect. It will be better 
for you to leave the house. But your papa is rich ; you 
will have a good portion ; then yon will find some one to 
marry jmu, and give you also an establishment.’ ‘Very 
well,’ I said ; ‘ but that is going too far, Madame, and until 
my papa tells me to go away from him I shall not go away, 
and there is not any necessity that I shall marry any one.’ ” 

“I wish Madame had minded her own affairs,” Mr. 
Winterbourne said, angrily. “I am not likely to marry 
a2:ain. I shall not marr^' again. Put that out of your head, 
Yolande, at once and for always. But as for you — well, 
don’t you see, child, I — I can’t live forever, and you have 
got no very near relatives, and, bevsides, living with rela- 
tives isn’t always the pleasantest of things, and I should like 
to see your future quite settled, I should like to know that — 
that—” 

“ M} future ! ” Yolande said, with a light laugh. “ No, 
I will have nothing to do with a future : is not the present 
very good ? Look ; here I am, I have you ; we are going 
out together to have walks, rides, boating — is it not enough ? 
Do I want an 3’- stranger to come in to interfere ? No ; 
some day you will say, ‘Yolande, you worry me. Ychi 
stop my work. Now I am going to attend to Parliament, 
and 3mu have got to marry, and go off, and not worry me.’ 
Ver3" well. It is enough. What I shall say is this : Papa, 


22 


YOLANDE. 


choose for me. Wliut do I know? I do not know, and 1 
do not care. Only a few things are necessary — are quite 
entirely necessary. He must not talk all day long about 
liorses. And he must be in Parliament. And he must be 
on your side in Parliament, flow much is that — three? — 
thi'ee qualifications. That is all.” 

Indeed, he found it was no use trying to talk to her 
seriously about this matter. She laughed it aside. She 
did not believe there was any fear about her future. She 
was well content with tiie world as it existed : was not the 
day fine enough, and Weybridge, and Cliertsey, and Esher 
and Moulsey all awaiting them ? If her father would leave 
his Parliamentary duties to look after themselves, she was 
resolved to make the most of the holiday. 

“ Oh, but you don’t know,” said he, quite falling in with 
her mood — “ you don’t know, Yolande, one fifteenth part 
of what is in store for yon. I don’t believe you have the 
faintest idea why I am going down to Oatlands at this 
minute.” 

“ Well, I don’t, papa,” she said, “ except through a mad- 
ness of kindness.” 

“ Would it surprise you if I asked Mrs. Graham to take 
you with them for that sail to Suez or Aden ? ” 

She threw up her hands in affright. 

“ Alone ? ” she exclaimed. ‘‘ To go away alone with 
strangers ? ” 

Oh no ; I should be going also — of course.” 

“ But the time — ” 

“I should be back for the Budget. Yolande,” said he, 
gravely, “ I am convinced — I am seriously convinced — that 
no one should be allowed to sit in Parliament W'ho has not 
visited Gibraltar, and the island of Malta, and such places, 
and seen how the em})ire is held together, and what our 
foieign possessions are — ” 

It is only an excuse, pap^a — it is only an excuse to give 
me another holiday.” 

“ Be quiet. I tell you the country ought to compel its 
legislators to go out in batches — paying the expenses of the 
poorer ones, of course — and see for themselves what our 
soldiers and sailors are doing for us. I am certain that I 
have no right to sit in Parliament until I have visited the 
fortifications of Malta, and inspecte<l the Suez Canal.” 

“Oh, if it is absolutely necessary,” Yolande said, with 
a similar gravity. 


YOLANDE. 


28 


“ It is absolutely necessary. I have long felt it to be so. 
I feel it is a duty to my country that we should personally 
examine Malta.” 

“Very well, papa,” said Tolande, who was so pleased to 
find her father in such good-humor that she forbore to pro- 
test, even though she was vaguely aware that the confidence 
of the electorate of Slagpool was again being abused in 
order that slie should enjoy another long and idling voyage 
with the only companion whom she cared to have with her. 

The Grahams were the very first people they saw when 
they reached Oatlands. Colonel Graham — a tall, stout, 
grizzled, good-natured looking man — was lying back in a 
garden seat, smoking a cigar and reading a newspaper, 
while his wife was standing close by, calling to her baby, 
which plump small person was vainly trying to walk to 
her, under the guidance of an ayah, whose dusky skin and 
silver ornaments and flowing garments of Indian red looked 
picturesque enough on an English lawn. Mrs. Graham was 
a pretty woman, of middle height, with a pale face, a square 
forehead, short hair inclined to curl, and dark gray eyes 
with black eyelashes and black eyebrows. But along w’ith 
her prettiness, which was only moderate, she had an ex- 
ceedingly fascinating manner, and a style that was at least 
attractive to men. Women, especially when they found 
themselves deserted, did not like her style ; they said there 
was rather too much of it ; they said it savored of the 
garrison flirt, and was obviously an importation from In- 
dia ; and they thought she talked too much, and laughed 
too much, and altogether had too little of the dignity of a 
matron. No doubt they would have hinted something 
about the obscurity of her birtli and parentage had that 
been possible. But it was not possible, for everybody 
knew that when Colonel Graham married her, as his second 
wife, she was the only daughter of Lord Lynn, who was the 
thirteenth baron of that name in the peerage of Scotland. 

Now this pretty, pale-faced, gray-eyed woman professed 
herself overjoyed when Mr. Winterbourne said there was a 
chance of his daughter and himself joining her and her hus- 
band on their suggested P. and O. trip ; but the lazy, 
good-humored looking soldier glanced up from his paper and 
said, — 

“ Look here, Polly, it’s too absurd. What wmuld people 
says ? It’s all very well for you and me : we are old Indians, 
and don’t mind ; but if Mr. Winterbourne is coming with us 


24 


YOLANDE. 


— and yo i, Miss Winterbourne — we must do sometbino 
more reasonable and Christian-like than sail out to Suez or 
Aden and back, all for nothing.” 

“ But nothing could suit us better,” Yolande’s father 
said. Indeed, he did not mind where or why he went, so 
long as he got away from England, and Yolande with him. 

“ Oh, but we must do something,” Colonel Graham said, 
“Look here. When we were at Peshawur a voung fellow 
came up there — you remember young Ismat, tolly? — well, 
I was of some little assistance to Iiim; and he said any time 
we wanted to see something of the Nile I could have his 
father’s dahabeeyah — or rather one'of them, for his father 
is Governor of Merhadj, and a bit of a swell, I fancy. There 
you are now. That would be sometliing to do. People 
wouldn’t think we were idiots. We could have our sail all 
the same to Suez, and see the old faces at Gib, and Malta ; 
then we could have a skim up the Nile a bit, and, by the 
way, Ave shall have it all to ourselves just now — ” 

“ The very thing ! ” exclaimed Mr. Winterbourne, 
eagerly, for his imagination seemed easily captured by the 
suggestion of anything remote. “ Nothing could be more 
admirable ! Yolande, what do you say ? ” 

Yolande’s face was sufhcient answer. 

“ My dear child,” said Mrs. Graham, in an awful whisper, 
“ have you got a Levinge? ” 

“ A what ? ” said Yolande. 

“ You have not? And you might have gone to Egypt, 
at this time of the year, without a Levinge?” 

“ What are you talking about the time of the year, Polly !’ 
her husband cried, peevishly. “ It is the only time of the 
year that tlie Nile is tolerable. It is no longer a cockney 
route. You have the whole place to yourself— at least, so 
Ismat Effendi assured me ; and if he lias given me a wrong 
tip, wait till I get hold of him by tlie nape of his Egyptian 
neck ! And you needn’t frighten Miss Yolande about 
mosquitoes or any of the other creatures of darkness; for 
you’ve only to get her one of those shroud things — ” 

“Just what I was saying,” his wife protested. 

Indeed, she seemed greatly pleased about this project; 
and when they went in to lunch they had a table to tliejii- 
selves, so as to secure a full and free discussion of plans. 
Mrs. Graham talked in the most motherly way to Yolande ; 
and ])etted her. She declared that those voyages to 


YOLAJVDE. 


25 


America, of which Yolande had told her, had nothmsjof the 
charm and variety and picturesquone.ss of the sail along 
the African shores. Yolande would be delighted with it; 
with the people on board ; with the ports they would call 
at ; with the blue of the JVIediterrauean Sea. It was all a 
wonder, as she described it. 

Tint she was a shrewd-headed little woman. Very soon 
after lunch she found an opportunity of talking with 'her 
husband alone. 

“ I tliink Yolande Winterbourne prettier and prettier 
the longer I see her,’’ she said, carelessly. 

“ She’s a good-looking girl. You’ll have to look out, 
Polly. You won’t have the whole ship 'waiting on you tliis 
time.” 

“And very rich — quite an heiress, they say.” 

“ I suppose Winterbourne is pretty well off.” 

“ He himself has nothing to do with the firm now, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ 1 think not.” 

“ Besides, making engines is quite respectable. Nobody 
could complain of that.” 

“ I shouldn’t, if it brought me in £15,000 or £20,000 a 
year,” her husband said, grimly. “ I’d precious soon have 
Inverstronan added on to Inverstroy.” 

“ Oh,” slie said, blithely, “ talking about the North, I 
haven’t heard from Archie for a long time. I wonder what 
he is about — watching the nesting of the grouse, I sup- 
pose. I say, Jim I wish you’d let me ask him to go with 
us. It’s rather dull for him up there ; my father isn’t easy 
to live with. May I ask him ? ” 

She spoke very prettily and pleadingly. 

He’ll have to pay his own fare to Suez and back, then,” 
hei- husband answered, rather rouglily. 

“ Oh yes ; why not ? ” slie said, with great innocence. 
“I am sure poor Archie is always willing to pay when he 
can, and I do wish my fatiier would be a little more liberal. 
I am sure he might. Every inch of shooting and fishing 
was let last year! even the couple of hundred yards along 
the river that Archie always has had for himself. I don’t 
believe he threw a fly last year — ” 

“ He did on the Stroy,” her husband said, gloomily. 

“ That was because you were so awfully good to him, 
said his wife, in her sweetest manner. “ And you can be 


26 


YOLANDE. 


awfully good to people, Jim, wlien you don’t let the black 
bear ride on your shoulders.” 

Then Mrs. Graham, smoothing her pretty short curls, 
and with much pleasure visible in the jwetty dark gray 
eyes, Went to her own room, and sat down and wrote as 
follows : — 

“ Dear Archie, — Jim’s good-nature is beyond anything. 
We are going to have a look at Gib, again, and at Malt.n, 
just for auld lang syne ; and then Jim talks of taking us u]) 
the Nile a bit; and he says you ought to go with us, and 
you will only have to pay your passage to Suez and back — 
which you could easily save out of your hats and boots, if 
you would only be a little less extravagant, and get them 
in Inverness instead of in London. Mr. Winterbourne, the 
member for Slagpool, is going with us, and he and Jim 
will halve the expenses of the Nile voyage. Mr. Winter- 
bourne’s daughter makes uj) the party. She is rathe.r nice, 
I think, but only a child. Let me know at once. There is 
a P. and O. on the 17th; I think we shall catch that; Jim 
and the captain are old friends. 

Your loving sister, 

“ POI LY.” 


She folded up the letter, put it in an envelope, f ud ad- 
dressed it to : — 

The Hon. the Master of Lynn., 

Ly7in Towers., 

by Inverness^ H. JB, 


CHAPTER IV. 

A FAREWELL TO ENGLAND. 

A VOYAGE in a P. and O. steamer is so familiar a matter 
to thousands of English readers that very little need be 
said about it here in detail, except, indeed, in so far as this 
j)articular voyage affected the fortunes of these one or two 
people. And Yolande’s personal experiences began early^ 


YOLAiVDE. 


'21 

The Tisnal small crowd of ])assengcrs was assembled in 
Liverj-tOGj Street Station, hurrying, talking, laugliing, and 
scanning possible ship-companions with an eager curiosity, 
and in the midst of them Yolande, for a wonder — her father 
having gone to look after some luggage — found herself for 
the moment alone. A woman came into this wide, hollow- 
resounding station, and timidly and yet anxiously scanned 
the faces of the various people who were on the platforni 
adjoining the special train. She was a respectably dressed 
person, appare?itly a mechanic’s wife, but her features bore 
the marks of recent crying; they were all “begrutten,” 
as the Scotch say. She carried a small basket. After an 
anxious sci-ntiny — but it was only the women she regarded 
— she went uj^ to Yolande. 

“I beg your pardon, miss,” she said ; but she could say 
no more, for her face was tremulous. 

Yolande looked at her, thought she was drunk, and 
turned away, rather frightened. 

“ I beg your pardon, miss ; ” and with that her trembling 
hands opened the basket, which was filled with flowers. 

“No, thank you, I don’t want any,” said Yolande, 
civilly. But there was something in the woman’s imploiang 
eyes that said something to her. She was startled, and 
stood still. 

“ Ai-e — are you going farther than Gibraltar, miss? ” 

“Yes. Yes, I think so,” said Yolande, wondering. 

There were teais I’unning down the woman’s face. For 
a second or two she tried to speak, ineffectually ; then she 
said : — 

“Two days out from — from Gibraltar — would you be 
so kind, miss, as to put — these flowers — on the water? My 
little girl was buried at sea — two days out — ” 

“Oh, I understand you,” said Yolande, quickly, with a 
big lump in her throat. “Oh yes, I will. I am so sorry 
for you — ” 

She took the basket. The woman burst out crying, and 
hid lier face in her hands, and then turned to go away. She 
was so distracted with her grief that she had forgotten even 
to say “ Thank you.” At the same moment Mr. Winter- 
bourne came up, li.astily and angrily. 

“ What is this ? ” ^ 

“ Hush, papa! The })Oor woman had a little girl buried 
at sea; these are some flowers — ” 


YOLANDE. 


l!8 


Yolancle went quickly after her, and touched her on the 
gliouldor. 

“ Tell me,” she said, “ what was your daughter’s name ? ” 

The worn ac raised her tear-stained face. “Jane. We 
called her Janie ; she was only three years old ; she would 
have been ten by now. You won’t forget, miss ; it was — 
it was two days beyond Gibraltar that — that we buried 
l.;.er.” 

“ Oh, no ; do you think I could forget? ” Yolande said ; 
and she offered her hand. The woman took her hand and 
pressed it, and said, “ God bless you, miss 1 I thought I 
could trust your face then she hurried away. 

Yolande went back to her father, who, though closely 
watching her, was standing with the Grahams ; and she 
told them (with her own eyes a little bit moist) of the 
mission with which she had been intrusted ; but neither 
she nor they thought of asking why, out of all the people 
about to go down by the steamer train, this poor woman 
should have picked out Yolande as the one by whom she 
would like to have those flowers strewn on her child’s ocean 
grave. Perhaps there was something in the girl’s face that 
assured the mother that she was not likely to forget. 

And at last the crowd began to resolve itself into those 
who were going and those who were remaining behind ; the 
former establishing themselves in the compartments, the 
latter talking all the more eagerly as the time grew shorter. 
And Mrs. Graham was’ in despair because of the non-appear- 
ance of her brother. 

“There! ’’she said to her husband, as the door of the 
carriage was finally locked, and the train began to move 
out of the station, “ I told you — I told you I should not be 
surprised. It is just like him — -always wanting to be too 
clever. Well, his coolness lias cost him something this 
time. I told you I should not at all be surprised if he 
missed the train altogether.” 

“ I don’t think the Master’s finances are likel}^ to run to 
a special,” her husband said, good-humoredly. 

“ Oh, it is too provoking ! ” exclaimed the pretty young 
matron (but, with all her anger, she did not forget to 
smooth her tightly fitting costume as she settled into her 
seat). “ It is too provoking! I left Baby at home more 
on liis account than on any one else’s. If there was the 
slightest sound, I knew he would declare that Baby had 


YOLANDE. 29 

Daen crying all the night through. There never \ras a 
better baby — never ! Now, was there ever, Jim ? ” 

“ W ell, I can’t answer for all the babies^that ever were 
in the world,” her husband said, in his easy, good-natured 
way ; “ but it is a good enough baby, as babies go.” 

“ It is the very best tempered baby I ever saw or heard 
of,” she said, emphatically; and she turned to yolande. 

‘ Just think, dear, of my leaving Baby in England for two 
whole months, and mostly because I knew my brother woulcl 
complain. And now he goes and misses the train — through 
laziness, or indifference, or wanting to be too sharp — 

“ I should think that B^by would be much better off on 
land than on board ship,” said Yolande, with a smile. 

“Of course. Miss Winterbourne,” the colonel said 
You’re quite right. A baby on board a ship is a nuisance.” 

“Jim ! You don’t deserve — 

“And there’s another thing,” continued the stout and 
grizzled soldier, with the most stolid composure. “ I’ve 
seen it often on board ship. I know what happens. Il 
the mother of the baby is old or ugly, it’s all right ; the 
baby is let alone. But if she’s young and good-looking, it’s 
wonderful how the young fellows begin and pet the baby, 
and feed it up on toffy and oranges. What do they know? 
Hang ’em, they’d fetch up pastry from the saloon and give 
it to a two-year-old. That ain’t good for a baby.” 

“Poor Archie !” said his wife, rather ineonsequently ; 
“ it will be such a disappointment for him.” 

“ I’ll tell you what it is,” said Colonel Graham ; “ I be- 
lieve he has never heard that the P. and O. ships don’t stop 
at Southampton now. Never mind, Polly; he can go over- 
land, if he wants to catch us up at Cairo.” 

“ And miss the whole voyage ! ” she exclaimed, aghast. 
“And forfeit his passage money? Fancy the cost of the 
railway journey to Brindisi! ” 

“Well, if people will miss trains, they must pay the 
penalty,” her husband remarked, quietly; and there was an 
end of that. 

At Tilbury there was the usual scramble of getting 
the luggage transferred to the noisy little tender ; and the 
natural curiosity with which every one was eager to scan 
the great and stately vessel which was to be their floating 
home for many a day. And here there was a surjwise for 
at least one of the party. When, after long delays, and 
. after a hurried steaming out into the river, the tender was 


30 


YOLANDE. 


drawing near the side of the huge steamer, of course all 
eyes were turned to the decks above, where the picturesque 
costumes of th^ la.scar crew were tlie most conspicuoui 
points of color. But tliere were obviously a number oi 
otlier people on board, besides the dusky crew and their 
Kiiglish olhcers. 

“ There he is — I can make hin out,” observed Colonel 
Giaham. 

“ Who ? ” his wife asked. 

“ Wliy, the Master of Lynn,” he answered, coolly. 

“Well, I never! ’’she exclaimed, in either real or af* 
fected anger. “ Slia’n’t I give it to him ! To think of his 
causing us all this disquietude ! ” 

“ Speak for yourself, Polly,''’ lier husliand said, as he re- 
garded a group of young men who were up on the hurri- 
cane-deck leaning over the rail and watching the approach 
of the tender. “ I wasn’t much put out, was I ? And a}> 
parently he hasn’t been, for he is smoking a cigar and chat- 
ting to — yes, by .love ! it’s Jack Douglas, and young Mac- 
kenzie of Sleat ; oh, there’s Ogilvy’s brother-in law — what 
do you call him ? — the long fellow who broke his leg at 
ILimbay; there’s young Fraser, too, eyeglass and all — a 
regular gathering of the clans. There’ll be some Nap going 
among those boys I ” 

I hope you won’t let Archie play, tlien,” his wife said, 
sharj)ly. But slie turned with a charming little smile to 
Y'olande. “ You mustn’t think my brother is a gambler, you 
know, dear ; but really some of those young officers play far 
beyond their means, and Archie is very popular amongst 
them I am told.” 

But by this time everybody was scrambling on to the 
paddle-boxes of the tender, and from thence ascending to 
the deck of the steamer. The Master of Lynn was standing 
l>y the gangway awaiting his sister. lie was a young man 
of four or live and twenty, slim, well built, wilh a})ale olive 
complexion and a perfectly clean-shaven face ; and he had 
the square forehead, the well-marked eyebrows, and the 
])leasant gray eyes with the dark eyelashes that his sister 
liad. But he had not her half-curly hair, for his was shorn 
bare, in soldier fashion, though he was not a soldier. 

“ I low are yon, Graham ? How are you, Polly? ” said 
he. 

“ Well, I like your coolness!” his sister said, angrily. 
“Why were you not at the station Why did you not tell 


YOLANDE. 


S] 

US ? Of course we thought you had missed tlie train^ ] 
wisli you would take the trouble to let peojde know whaf 
you are about. — Let me introduce you to ]\Iiss Winter- 
bourne. Yolande dear, this is my brother Archie. — Mr. 
Winterbourne, my brotlier, Mr. Leslie. — Well, now, what 
have you to say for yourself? ” 

He had thrown away his cigar. 

“ Hot much,” said he, smiling good-naturedly and taking 
some wraps and things from her which her liusband liad 
selfishly allowed her to carry. “I went down to see some 
fellows at Chatham last night, and of course I stayed thei-e, 
and came over in the morning. Sorry I vexed you. You 
see. Miss Winterbourne, my sister likes platform parade ; 
she likes to have people round her for half an hour before 
the train starts ; and she likes to walk up and down, for it 
shows off her figure and her dress: isn’t that so, Polly ? 
K«t you hadn’t half your display this morning, apparently. 
Where’s Baby ? Where’s Ayah ? ” 

“ You know very well. You would have been grumbling 
all the time if 1 had brought Baby.” 

“Well,’’ said he, looking rather aghast, “if you’ve left 
Baby behind on my account I shall have a pleasant time of 
it. I don’t believe you. But tell me the number of your 
cabin, and I’ll take these things down for you. I’m on the 
spardeck, thank goodness ! ” 

“ Miss Winterbourne’s cabin is next to mine ; so you 
can take her things down too.” 

“Ho, thank you,” said Yolande, who was looking out 
for her luggage (her maid being in a ho])eless state of be- 
wilderment), and who had nothing in her hand but the little 
basket. “ I will take this down myself by and by.” 

There was a great bustle and confusion on board ; friends 
giving farewell messages ; passengers seeking out their 
cabins ; the bar(3-arnied and barefooted lascars, with their 
blue blouses and red turbans, hoisting luggage on to their 
shoulders and carrying it along the passages. Mr. Winter- 
bourne was impatient. 

“I hate this — this confusion and noise,” he said. 

“ Bpt, papa,” said Yolande, “ I know your things as well 
as my own. Jane and I will see to them when they come 
on board. Please go away and get some lunch — please ! 
Everything will be quiet in a little while.” 

“ I Avish we Avere off,” he said, in the same impatient 
way. “ This delay is quite unnecessary. It is always the 


32 


VOLAA'Z)/-:. 


sfime. TVe ought to liave started before now. Why doesn’t 
the captain order the ship to he cleared ? ” 

“ Pa'pa dear, do go and get places at the table. The 
Grahams have gone below. And have something very nice 
waiting for me. See, tliere comes your other })ortmanteau 
now ; and there is only the topee-box ; and I know it be- 
cause I put a bit of red silk on the liandle. Papa, do go 
down and get us comfortable places — I will come as soon 
as I have sent your topee-box to your cabin. I suppose wo 
shall be near the Grahams.” 

“ Oh, I know where Mrs. Graliam will be,” her father 
said, peevishly. “ She will be next the captain. She is the 
sort of woman who always sits next the captain.” 

“ Then the captain is very lucky, pa])a,” said Yolande, 
mildly, “ for she is exceedingly nice ; and she has been ex- 
ceedingly kind to me.” 

‘‘ I suppose the day wdll come when this captain, or any 
other captain, would be just as glad to have you sit next 
him,” he said. 

“ Papa,” she said, with a smile, “are you jealous of Mrs. 
Graham for my sake ? I am sure I do not wish to sit next 
the captain ; I have not even seen him yet that 1 know of.” 

But this dehay, necessary or unnecessary, made lum ir 
ritable and anxious. lie would not go to tlie saloon unth 
he liad seen all the limixaire — both his and Yolande’s — des- 
patched to their respective cabins. Then he began to in- 
quire why the sliip did not start. Why were the strangers 
not packed off on board tlie tender and sent ashore ? Why 
did the chief officer allow these boats to be hanging about? 
Tlic agent of the company had no right to be standing talk- 
ing on deck two hours after the shi]) was timed to sail. 

Afeanwhile Yolande stole away to her own cabin, and 
carefully and religiously — and, indeed, with a little choking 
in the throat — opened the little basket that held the flowers, 
to see whether they might not be the better for a little 
sprinkling of water. They were ratlier ex})en»ive flowers 
for a poor woman to liave bought, inid the damp moss in 
which they were imbedded and the basket itself also were 
more suggestive of Covent Garden than of Wlii^chapel. 
Yolande ])Oured some water into the waslihand basin, and 
dijjped her fingers into it, and very carefully and tenderly 
sprinkled the flowers over. And tlien she considered what 
was likely to be the coolest and safest place in the cabin for 


YOLAAWE, 


S3 


them, and Imng tlie basket there, and came out again — 
shutting the door, involuntarily, with quietness. 

She passed through the saloon, and went up on deck. 
Her father was still there. 

“ Papa,” said she, “ you are a very unnatural person. 
You are starving me.” 

“Haven’t you had lunch, Yolande? ” said he, with a 
sudden compunction. 

“ No, I have not. Do I ever have lunch without you? 
I am waiting for you.” 

“ Really, this delay is most atrocious ! ” he said. “ What 
is tlie use of advertising one liour and sailing at another? 
There can be no excuse. The tender has gone ashore.” 

“ Oh, but, papa, they say there is a lady who missed the- 
train, and is coming down by a special — ” 

“ I don’t believe a word of it. Wliy, that is worse. Tlie 
absurdity of keeping a ship like this waiting for an idiot of 
a woman ! ” 

“ I am so hungry, papa ! ” 

“Well, go down below, and get something, if you can. 
No doubt the gross mismanagement reaches to the saloon 
tables as well.” 

She j)ut her hand within his arm, and half drew him 
along to tlie companionway. 

“ What is the difference of an hour or two.” said she, 

“ if we are to be at sea for a fortnight ? Perhaps the })oor 
lady who is coming down by the special train has some one 
ill abroad. And — and besides, papa, I am so very, very, 
very hungry ! ” 

lie went down with her to the saloon, and took his ])lace 
in silence. Yolande sat next to Mrs. Graham, who "was 
very talkative and merry, even though there was no captain 
in his place to do her honor. Young Archie Leslie was 
op])osite ; so was Colonel Graham. Tliey were mostly 
idling ; but Yoland was hungry, and they were all anxious to 
help her at once, though the silent dusky stewards knew 
their duties well enough. 

By and by, wlien they were talking about anything oi 
nothing, it occurred to the young Master of Lynn to say, 

“I suppose you don’t know that we are off?” 

“No! impossible! ” was the general cry. 

“ Oh, but we are, though. Look ! ” 

Mr. Winterbourne quickly got up and weni to one of 


tbo ports; there, inidonbtcdly, were the river-hanks slowly, 
si owl V going astern. 

Me went back to liis scat, putting his hand on Yolandc’g 
shoulder as he sat down. 

Yolande,” said he, “do you know that we are oiT — 
really and truly going away from England — altogether quit 
from its shores?” 

His manner had almost instantly changed. His spirits 
quickly brightened u}). lie made himself most agreeable 
to ]\Irs. Graham ; and was humorous in his quiet, halt- 
sardonic way , and was altogether pleased with the a])pear- 
ance and the appointments of the ship. To fancy this great 
mass of metal moving away like that, and the throbbing of 
•the screw scarcely to be detected ! 

“ Y^ou know, my dear Mrs. Gralnam,” he said presently, 
“ this child of mine is a most economical, even a penurious, 
creature ; and I must de})end on you to force her to make 
]u*o])er purchases at the different places — all tlie kinds of 
things that womcn-folk j>rize, don’t you know. Lace, now. 
What is the use of being at Malta if you don’t buy lace? 
And embi'oiderics and things of that kind. She ought to 
bring back enough of Eastern silks and stuffs to last her a 
lifetime. And jewelry too — silver suits her very well — she 
must get plenty of that at Cairo — ” 

“ Oh, you can leave that to my wife,” Colonel Graham 
said, confidently. “ She’d buy up the Pyramids if she 
could take them home. I’m glad it won’t be my money.” 

And this was but one small item of expectation. The 
voyage befoie them fin-nished forth endless hopes and 
schemes. They all adjhnirned to the hurricane-deck ; and 
here his mood of contented cheerfulness was still more 
obvious. He was quite delighted with the cleanness and 
order of the ship, and with the courtesy of the captain, and 
with the smart look of the ofheers; and he even expressed 
^pjiroval of the j)rettY, quiet, not romantic scenery of the 
estuary of the Thames. Y^oland was with him. ^Yhen 
they walked, tliey walked arm in arm. He said he thought 
the Grahams were likely to be excellent companions ; Mrs. 
Graham was a charming woman; tliere was a good deal of 
quiet humor about her husband ; The Master of Lynn was 
a frank-mannered young fellow, with honest eyes. His step 
grew jaunty. He told Yolande she must, when in Egypt, 
buy at least half a dozen Eastern costumes, the more gor- 


YOLANDE. 35 

geous the better, so that she should never be at a loss when 
asked to go to a fancy-dress ball. 

And at dinner, too, in the evening, it was a delight to 
Tolande to sit next to him, and listen to his chuckles and 
his little jokes. Care seemed to have left him altogether. 
The night, when they went on deck again, was dark ; but a 
dark night pleased him as much as anything. Yolande w'as 
walking with him. 

And then they sat down with their friends : and Mrs. 
Graliam had much to talk about. Yolande sat silent. Far 
away in the darkness a long thin dull line of gold was 
visilde ; she had been told that these were the lights of 
Hastings. It is a strange thing to sail past a country in the 
night-time and to think of all the beating human hearts it 
contains — of the griefs, and despairs, and hushed joys all 
hidden away there in the silence. And perhaps Yolande was 
thinking most of all of the })oor mother — whose name she 
did not know, whom she should never see again — but whose 
heart she knew right well was heavy that night with its 
aching sorrow. It was her first actual contact with human 
misery, and she could not helj) thinking of the woman’s 
face. That was terrible, and sad beyond anything that she 
could have imagined. For indeed her own life so far had 
been among the roses. As Mrs. .Graham had said, she was 
but a child. 


CHAPTER V. 

MRS. BELL. 

“ It is really quite wonderful how intimate you become 
with people on board ship, and how well you get to know 
them.-’ 

Tills not entirely novel observation was addressed to 
Yolande by tlie Master of Lynn, while these two, with some 
half-dozen others, were grouped together in the com])anion, 
way, where they had taken shelter from the flying seas. 
The remark was not new, but he appeared to think it im- 
jiortant. He seemed anxious to convince her of its truth. 

‘‘ It is really quite wonderful,” he repeated ; and he re- 


3G 


YOLANDE. 


garded the pretty face as if eager to meet with acquiescence 
tliere. “ On board sliip you get to know the characters ol 
pocjple so tliorouglily ; you can tell whether the friendship 
is likely to last after the voyage is over. Balls and dinner 
parties are of no use; that is only acquaintanceship ; at sea 
you are thrown so much together ; you are cut off from the 
world, you know; there is a kind of fellow-feeling and com- 
panionship — that — that is quite different. Why,” said he, 
with his eyes brightening, “ it seems absurd to think that 
the day before yesterday you and I were absolute strangers, 
and yet here you have been letting me bore you for hours 
by talking of Lynn and the people there — ” 

“ Oh, I assure you I am very grateful,” said Yo- 
lande, with much sincerity. “But for you I should have 
been quite alone.” 

The fact is, they had encountered a heavy two days’ 
gale outside the Bay of Biscay and south of that ; and as 
the ship was a pretty bad roller, sad havoc was wrought 
among tlie passengers. Mrs. Graham had disappeared 
from the outset. Her husband was occasionally visible; 
but he was a heavy man, and did not like being knocked 
about, so ho remained mostly in the saloon. Mr. Win- 
terbourne was a good enougli sailor, but the noises at night 
— he liad a spar-deck cabin — kept him awake, and he spent 
the best pait of the daytime in his berth trying to get fitful 
snatclies of sleep. Accordingly, Yolande, Avdio wanted to 
see the sights of the storm, betook herself to the companion- 
way, where she would liave been entirely among strangers 
(being somewhat reserved in her walk aad conversation) 
had it not been for Mr. Leslie. He, indeed, proved himself 
to be a most agreeable companion — modest, assiduously 
attentive, good-natured, and talkative, and very respectful. 
He was entirely governed by her wishes. He brought her 
the news of the ship, when it was not every one who would 
venture along the deck, dodging the heavy seas. He got 
her the best corner in this companionway, and the most 
comfortable of the chairs ; and he had rugs for her, and a 
book, only that she was too far much interested in what was 
going on around her to read. Once or twice, when she 
would stand by the door, ho even ventured to put his liand 
on her arm, afraid lest she should be overbalanced and 
thrown out on the swimming decks. For there was a kind 
of excitement amid this roar and crash of wind and water. 
Who could decide which was the grander spectacle — that 


YOLANDE. 


37 


"refit mnss of driven and tossing and seething silver that 
v ent out and out until it met a wall of black cloud at tlie 
horizon, or the view from the other side of the vessel (with 
one’s back to the sunlight) — the mountains of blue rolling 
by, and their crests so torn by the gale that the foam ended 
in a rainbow flourish of orange and red ? 

“ Tliey say she is rolling eighty-four degrees ‘ out and 
out, ’ ” said Archie Leslie. 

“ Oh, indeed,” said Yolande, looking grave. “ But 1 
don’t know what that means.” 

“ Neither do I,” said he ; “ but it sounds well. What I 
do know is that you won’t see my sister till we get to Gib. 
You seem to be a capital sailor. Miss Winterbourne.” 

“ I have often had to be ashamed of it,” said Yolande. 
“ To-day, also — there was no other lady at the table — oh, I 
cannot sit alone like that any more ; no, I will ratlier have 
no dinner than go and sit alone; it is terrible — and the 
captain laughing.” 

“Poor fellow, he is not in a laughing mood just now.” 

“ Why, then? There is no danger?” 

“ Oh no. But I hear he has had his head cut open — a 
chronometer falling on him in his cabin. But I think he’L 
show up at dinner ; it is only a flesh wound. They’ve had 
one of the boats stove in, they say, and some casks carried 
aw\ay, and a good deal of smashing forward. I wonder if 
your father has got any sleep — I should think not. I’ll go 
and see how he is getting on if you like ? ” 

“ Oh no ; if he is asleep, that is very well. No,"” said 
Yolande; “ I wish you to tell me more about your friend 
— the gentleman who was your tutor. That is a very 
strange life for any one to live.” 

What fehe wished was enough for him. 

“ I have not told you the strangest part of the story, ^ 
said he, “ for you would not believe it.” 

“ Am I so unbelieving ? ” she said, looking up. 

His eyes met hers — but only for an instant. Yolande’i 
eyes were calm, smiling, unconcerned ; it was not in them, 
at all events, that any confusion lay. 

“ Of course I do not mean that,” said he ; “ but — but one 
has one’s character for veracity, don’t you know — and if I 
were to tell you about Mrs. Bell — the story is too im- 
probable.” 

“ Then it is about Mrs. Bell that I wish to hear,” said 
Yolande, in lier gentle, imperious way. 


38 


YOLANDE. 


“ Resides, Tve bored you all day long aoout those' 
people in Inverness-shire. You will tliink I have never seen 
any one else, and never l^een anywhere else. Now I would 
nuich rather hear about the Chateau and the people there. 
I want you to tell me what you tliought of America — after 
living in that quiet place.” 

“ Wliat I thought of America ! ” said Yolande, with a 
laugh. “That is a question indeed ! ” 

“ Isn’t it the question that all Americans ask of you? 
You have heard enough about the Inverness-shire ])eo})le. 
Tell me about Rennes. Have you seen much of Paris? 
Did you like the Parisians?” 

“ Ah,” said she, “ you are not so obedient to me as my 
papa is.” 

“ Fathers in Scotland are made of sterner stuff, I should 
think,” he answered. “We don’t talk that way.” 

“Now listen,” she said. “ I have the picture before me 
— everything complete — the lake, and Lynn Towers, the 
mountains and moorland, also the ravines where the deer 
take shelter — oh yes, I can see all that quite clear, but the 
central figure, that is absent.” 

“ The central figure ? ” 

“ Mrs. Bell.” 

He had quite forgotten about that lady, now he 
laughed. 

“ Oh no,” he said; “Mrs. Boll is not so important as 
that. She has iiotliing to do witli Lynn. She lives at Gross.” 

“ Well, tliat is a beginning at all events,” she remarked, 
with a slight shrug of the shoulders. 

“Oh, but must I really tell you the story? You will 
try hard to believe ? ” 

“ I am not unbelieving.” 

“ Very well, then. I will tell you about Mrs. Bell, for I 
hope some day you will see her.” 

She looked up inquiringly. 

“Yes, I am going to ask your father to take a moor up 
tliere that 1 know of, and of course you would come to the 
lodge. If he cares about grouse-shooting and isn’t afraid 
of hard work, it is the very place for him. Then you would 
see my friend Melville, wlio ought to be Meville of Mona- 
glen by rights, and maybe he will before Mrs. Bell has done 
witli him.” 

“ Mrs. Bell again ! Then I am to hear about her after 
all ? ” 


YOLANDE. 


39 


“ Very well, then. INfrs. Bell is not i\[rs. Bell, but Miss 
B(ill, only tliey call her ‘ Mrs.’ because she is an elderly lady, 
and is rich, and is a substantial and matronly-looking kind 
of person. Of course you won’t believe the story, but never 
mind. Mrs. Bell was cook to the Melvilles — that was years 
and years ago, before old Mr, JMelville died. But she was 
an ambitious party, and Gress wasn’t enough for her. She 
could read, and it isn’t every Highland servant lass who 
can do that. She read cookery books and made experh 
ments. Now you see the adventures of Mrs. Bell don’t 
make a heroic story.” 

“But I am listening,” said Yolande, with a calm air. 

“ She got to be rather clever, though there was not 
much chance for her in the Melvilles’ house, d’hen she 
went to Edinburgh. All this is plain sailing. She got a 
situation in a hotel there ; then she was allowed to try what 
she could do in the cooking line ; then she was made head 
cook. That is the end of cha):)ter one ; and I suppose you 
believe me so far. Years went on, and Kirsty was earning 
a good wage ; and all that we knew of her was that slie 
used to send small suras of money occasionally to help one 
or two of the poor people in Gress who had been her neigh- 
bors, for she had neither kith nor kin of her own. Then 
tliere happened to come to the hotel in Edinburgh an elderly 
English gentleman who was travelling about for Ids health, 
and lie was frightfully anxious about his food, and lie very 
much appreciated the cooking at the hotel. He made in- 
quiries. He saw Kirsty, who was by this time a resiiectablo 
middle-aged woman, getting rather gray. What docs the 
old maniac do but tell her that he has only a few years to 
live; that the cooking of his food is about the most imjior- 
tant thing to him in the world ; that he has no near rel- 
atives to inherit his property ; and that if she will go to 
Leicestershire and bind herself to remain cook in his house 
as long as he lived, he will undertake to leave her every 
penny he possessed when he died. ‘I will,’ says Kirsty, 
but she was a wise woman, and she went to the lawyers; 
and had everything pro]>erly settled. Shall I go on, Miss 
Winterbourne? 1 don’t think my heroine interests you. 
I wish you could see old Mrs. Bell.” 

“ Oh yes, go on. That is not so unbelievable. Of course 
I believe you. Is it necessary to say timt? ” 

Yolande’s dignity was a little bit disturbed at this mo- 


YOLAJVDE. 


4U 

rnent by a scattering of spray around lier ; but she quickly 
dried her red-gold hair and the smooth oval of her cheeks. 

“ What comes after is a good bit stranger,” lie continued. 
“ The old gentleman died ; only he lived much longer than 
, anybody expected ; and Kirsty, at the age of fifty-eight or 
so, found herself in possession of an income of very near 
£-1000 a year — well, I believe it is more than that now, 
for the property has increased in value. And now begins 
what I can’t tell you half well enough — I wish you could hear 
Mrs. Bell’s own account — I mean of the schemes that people 
laid to inveigle her into a marriage. You know she is rather 
a simple and kindly liearted woman ; but she believes lierself 
to be the very incarnation of shrewdness ; and certainly on 
that one point she showed herself shrewd enough. When 
my sister re-appeai-s on deck again, you say to her, ‘ Kirsty 
kenned better,’ and see if she does not recognize the phrase. 
Mrs. Bell’s descri})tion of the various offers of marriage she 
has had beats anything; but it was always ‘ Kirsty kenned 
better.’ Yes ; and among these was a formal proposal from 

Lord — ^ — ; I mean the father of the present Lord ; and 

that ])roposal was twice repeated. You know the s are 

awfully poor ; and that one was at his wit’s end for money. 
But Kirsty was not to be caught. Among other things he 
stipulated that he was to be allowed to spend eight months 
of the year in London, she remaining either in Leicestershire 
or in the Highlands, as she pleased. More than that, he 

even got the duke of to write to Miss Bell, and back up 

the suit, and promise that, if she would consent, he would 
liimself go down and give her away.” 

“ The gi'eat Duke of ? ” said Yolande, with her eyes 

a little bit wider. 

“ Yes ; the late Duke. I thought I should astonish you. 
But 1 have seen the Duke’s letter ; it is one of Mrs. ]^ll’s 
])roudest possessions. I have no doubt you will see it for 
yourself some day. But Kirsty kenned better.” 

“ What did she do then? ” 

“ What did she do ? She went back to Gress like a sen- 
sible woman. And she is more than sensible — she is remark- 
ably good-natured ; and she sought out the son of her old 
master — that’s my friend Melville, you know, and then she 
tried all her fiattery and shrewdness on him until she got 
him persuaded that he should live in Gress — he was cadging 
about for another tutorship at the time — and make a sort of 
model village of it, and have old Kirsty for his housekeeper. 


YOLANDE. 


41 


Ofi, she’s clover enough in her way. She has ]>icked up very 
good manners; she can liold lier own with anybody. And 
she manages Melville most beautifully ; and lie isn’t easy 
to manage. Slie is always very respectful, a-od makes him 
believe he is doing her a great kindness in spending her 
money in improving the village, and all that ; but what she 
really means, of course, is that he should be a kind of sinail 
laird in the place that used to belong to his people. An<l 
that is what that woman means to do; I know it — I am 
certain of it. If ever Monaglcn comes into the market she'li 
snap it up; she must have a heap saved. Sooner or later 
she’ll make Jack Melville ‘Melville of Monaglen,’ jjs sure as 
he’s alive.” 

“You and he are great friends, then?” 

“Oh, he rather sits ujion me,” the Master of Lynn said, 
modestly ; “ but we are ]iretty good fiiends, as things go.” 

The gale did not abate much that afternoon; on the 
contrary, the great shij) seemed to be rolling more heavily 
than ever; and at one minute a little accident occurred 
that might have been attended with more serious con- 
sequences. Mr. Winterbourne and young Leslie, not being 
able to reach the smoking-room on account of the seas 
coming over the bows, had sought shelter on a bench im- 
mediately aft of the hurricane-deck, and there, enveloped 
in waterproof, they were trying, to kecj) their cigars alight. 
Unfortunately the lashings securing this bench had uot 
been veiy strong, and at one bad lurch of the vessel — ■ 
indeed, the deck seemed to be at right angles with the 
water below them — away the whole thing went, spinning 
down to leeward. Leslie was a smart young fellow, saw what 
was coming, and before the bench had reached the gunwale 
he had with one hand swung himself on to the ladder 
ascending to the hurricane-deck, while with the other he had 
seized hold of his cornpaion’s coat. Probably, had he not 
been so quick, the worst that could have happened was that 
the two of them might have had a thorough sousing in the 
water surging along the scuppers ; but when Yolaiide heard 
of the accident, and when Mr. Winterbourne rather sadly 
showed her his waterproof, whish had been half torn from 
his back, she was instantly convinced that young Leslie had 
saved her father’s life. 

In consequence she was much less imperious and wilful 
in her manner all that afternoon, and was even timidly 
polite to him. She consented, without a word, to go down 


42 


YOLANDE, 


to dinner, although agahi she was tlie only lady at table. 
i\nd, ijjdeed, dinner that evening was entirely a ludiwoua 
])erfonnance. When Mr. Winterbourne Jiiid Yolande and 
young Leslie got to tlie foot of the companion-stairs, and 
with much clinging prepared to enter the saloon, tlie first 
tiling they saw before them was a sudden wave of white that 
liift tlie table and crashed against tlie walls. The stewards 
regarded tlie broken crockery with a ghastly smile, but 
made no immediate effort to pick up the fragments. Tlie 
fiddles” on the table were found to be of no use whatever. 
AVhen these three sat down they could only make sure of 
such things as they could keep their fingers upon. Buttress- 
ing was* of no avail. Plates, tumblers, knives and forks, 
broke away and steeple-cliased over the fiddles, until the 
final smash on the walls brought their career to a close. 
The din was awful ; and Mr. Winterbourne was much too 
anxious about the objects around him to be able to make his 
customary little jokes. ■ But they got through it someliow ; 
and the only result of these wild adventures with rocketing 
loaves and plates and bottles was that Yolande and the 
young blaster of Lynn seemed to be on more and more 
friendly and familiar terms. Yolande talked to him iis 
frankly as if he had been her brother. 

Next day matters mended considerably; and the next 
again broke blue and fair and shining, with an immense 
number of Mother Cary’s chickens skimming along the sun- 
lit waters. Far away in the south the pale line of the 
African coast was visible. People began to appear on deck 
who liad been, hidden for the last couple of days; Mrs. 
Graham was up and smiling, in a exceedingly pretty cos- 
tume. When should they reach Gibraltar ? Who was going 
ashore ? V/ere there many “ Scorpions” on board ? 

Yolande was not much of a politician ; but her father 
being somewhat of a “ Jingo,” of course she was a “ Jingo” 
too; and she was very proud when, towards the Afternoon, 
they drew nearer and nearer to the great gray scarred rock 
that commands the Mediterranean ; and her heart warmed at 
tlie sight of a little red speck on one of the ramparts — an 
English sentry keeping guard there. And when they went 
ashore, and wandered through the streets, she had as much 
inlerest in })lain Tommy Atkins in his red coat as in any of 
the more picturesquely clad Spaniards or Arabs she saw 
tliere ; and when they went into the x\lameda to hear the 
miiitai-y band play, slie knew by a sort of instinct that 




VOLAA-DE, 


43 


among the ladies sitting in their cool costumes under the 
maples and acacias sucli and such groups were English- 
women — the wives of the officers, no doubt — and she would 
have liked to have gone and spoken to them. “ Gib.” seemed 
to lier to be a bit of England, and therefore fi-iendly and 
familiar ; she thought the place looked tremendously strong; 
and she was glad to see such piles of shot and ranged rowi 
of cannon ; and she had a sort of gratitude in her heart 
toward the officers and the garrison, and even the English- 
women sitting there, with a tint of sun-brown on their 
cheeks, but an English look in their eyes. And all this was 
absurd enough in a young minx who made a fool of English 
idioms nearly every time she opened her mouth ! 

What a beautiful night that was as they sailed away 
from the vast Gray llock! The moon was growing in 
strength now, and the heavens were clear. The passengers 
had begun to form their own little groups ; acquaintance- 
ships had been made ; chair drawn close together on the 
deck, in the silence, under the stars. And down there the 
skylight of the saloon was open, and there was a yellow glare 
coming up from below, also the sound of singing. There 
were at ducts below — two or three young people; and 
whether they sang well or ill, the effect was })leasant enough, 
with the soft murmur of the IMediterranean all around. 
“Oh, who will o’er the downs so free” — of coui'se they sang 
that ; people always do sing tliat on board shij). Then 
they sang, “ I would that my love could silently,” and many 
another old familiar air, the while the vessel churned on its 
way through the unseen watei-s, and the pale shadows tiirown 
by the moon on the white decks slowly moved with the mo- 
tion of the vessel. It was a beautiful night. 

The Mastei* of Lynn came aft from the smoking-room, 
and met his brother-in-law on the way. 

“ Tliis is better, isn’t it? ” said Colonel Graham. “ This 
is more like wlial I shipped for.” 

“Yes, this is better. Do you know where the Winter- 
bournes are ? ” 

“ In the saloon, I have Just left them there.” 

Young Leslie was passing on, but he stopped. 

“I say, Graham, I’ve noticed one thing on board this 
sliip already.” 

“ What ? ” 

“You watch to-morrow, if they’re both on deck at the 


44 


YOLANDR. 


same time. You’ll find that Polly has got ah the men about 
her, and Miss Winterbourne all the children. Odd, isn’t 


it?” 


CHAPTER VI. 

They were indeed cut off from the rest of the world, as 
they went ploughing their way through tlieseblue Mediter- 
ranean seas. Hay after day brought its round of amuse- 
ments ; and always the sun shining on the wliite decks ; 
and the soft winds blowing; and now and again a swallow, 
or dove, or quail, or some such herald from unknown coasts, 
taking refuge for awhile in the rigging, or fluttering alo^ig 
by the vessel’s side. There was an amateur photographer 
on board, moreover ; and many were the groups that were 
formed and taken ; only it was observed tliat when the 
officers were included, the captain generally managed to 
have Yolande standing on the bridge beside him — a piece 
of favoritism that broke through all rules and regulations. 
There was a good deal of Bull ” played ; and it was 
wonderful how, when Mrs. Graliam v^as playing, there 
always happened to be a number of those young Highland 
officers about, ready to pick up her quoits for her. And 
always, but especially on the bright and breezy forenoons, 
there was the constitutional tramp up and down the long 
hun-icane-deck — an occupation of which Yolande was par- 
ticularly fond, and in which she found no one could keep 
up with her so untiringly as the Master of Lynn. She was 
just as well pleased, however, when she was alone, for tlien 
she sank to herself, and had greater freedom in flinging her 
arms about. 

“Look at her,” her father said one morning to Mrs. 
Graham — concealing his admiration under an air of chagrin. 
“ Wouldn’t you think she was an octopus, or a windmill, 
or something like that ? ” 

“ I call it a rattling good style of walking,” said Colonel 
Graham, interposing. “ Elbows in ; palms out. She is a 
remarkably well-made young \^oman — that’s my opinion.” 

“ But she isn’t an octopus,” her father said, peevishly. 

“ Oh, that is merely an excess of vitality,” her cliampioii 


YOLANDE. 


At 


said. “Look hou^ springy her walk is! I don’t believe 
her heel ever touches the deck — all her walking is done 
with the front part of her foot. Gad, it’s infectious,” con- 
tinued the colonel, with a, grim laugh. “ I caught myself 
trying it when 1 was walking with her yesterday. But it 
aiu’t easy at fifteen stone.” 

“ She need not make herself ridiculous,” her father 
said. 

“ Ridiculous ? I think it’s jolly to look at her. Makes 
one feel young again. Slie don’t know that a lot of fogies 
are watching her. Bet a sovereign she’s talking about 
dancing. Archie’s devilish fond of dancing — so he ought 
to be at his time of life. They say they’re going to give 
us a ball to-night — on deck.” 

Mrs. Graham was a trifle impatient. There were none 
of the young officers about, for a wonder ; they had gone 
to have their after-breakfast cigar in the smoking-room — 
and perhaps a little game of Nap therewithal. This study 
of Yolande’s appearance had lasted long enough, in her 
opinion. 

“ It is clever of her to wear nothing on her head,” she 
said, as she took up a book and arranged herself in her 
chair. “ Her hair is her best feature.” 

But what Yolande and her companion, young Leslie, 
were talking about, as they marched up and down the long 
wffiite decks — occasionally sto])ping to listen to a small group 
of lascars, who were chanting a monotonous singsong 
refrain — had nothing in the world to do with dancing. 

“ You think, then, I ought to speak to your father 
about the moor? Would you like it ? ” said he. 

“ I ? ” she said. “ That is nothing. If my papa and I 
are together, it is not any difference to me -where we are. 
But if it is so wild and remote, that is what my 2>apa will 
like.” 

“ Remote ! ” said he, with a laugh. “ It is fourteen 
miles away from anywhere. I like to hear those idiots 
talking who say the Highlands are overrun with tourists. 
Much they know about the Highlands ! Well, now they’ve 
got the railway to Oban, J suppose that’s pretty bad. But 
this place that I am telling you of — why, you would not see 
a strange face from one year’s end to the other.” 

“ Oh, that will exactly suit my papa — exactly,” she said, 
w'ith a smile. “ Is it very, uery far away from everything 
and every one ? ” 


40 


YOLANDE, 


‘‘ Isn’t it he said, grimly. “Why, it’s up near ilnj 
sky, to begin Avith. I should say the average would bo 
neai- three thousand feet above the level of the sea. And 
as for remoteness — avcII, perhaps Kingussie is not more 
than twelve miles off as the crow flies ; but then you’ve got 
the Monalea mountains between it and you ; and tlie 
Monalea mountains are not exactly the sort of jflace that 
a couple of old ladies would like to climb in search of wild 
flowers. You see that is the serious part of it for you, Miss 
Winterbourne. Fancy tlie change between the temperature 
of the Nile and that high moorland — ” 

“Oh, that is nothing,” she said. “So long as I am 
out of doors the heat or the cold is to me nothing — nothing 
at all.” 

“ The other change,” he continued, “ I have no doubt 
would be striking enough — from the busy poi)ulation of 
Egypt to the solitude of Allt-nam-Ba — ” 

“ What is it ? Allt — ” 

“Allt-nam-Ba. It means the Stream of the Cows, 
though thei-e are no cows there now. They have some 
strange names up there — left by the people tvho have gone 
away. I suppose people did live there once, though what 
they lived on I can’t iTnagine. They have left names, any- 
way, some of them simple enough — the Fair Winding 
Water, the Dun Water, the Glen of the Horses, the Glen 
of the Gray Loch, and so forth — but some of them I can’t 
make out at all. One is the Glen of the Tombstone, and I 
have searched it, and never could find any trace of a tomb- 
stone. One is the Cairn of the Wanderers, and they must 
have wandered a good bit before they got up there. Then 
there is a burn that is called the Stream of, the Fairies — 
Uisge nan Sithena — tluit is simjfle enough ; but there is 
another place that is called Black Fairies. Now Avho on 
earth ever heard of black fairies ? ” 

“ But it is not a frightful jflace ?” she said. “It is not 
terrible, gloomy ? ” 

“ Not a bit,” said he. “These are only names. No 
one knows hoAv they came there, that is all. Gloomy? I 
think the strath from the foot of the moor down to our 
place is one of the prettiest straths in Scotland.” 

“ Then I should see Lynn Tower? ” she said. 

“ Oh yes ; it isn’t much of a building, you know.” 

“ And Mr. Melville of Monaglen — that would be inter- 
esting to me.” 


YOLANDE, 


“Oil yes,” said he: “but — but I wouhlrrt call liiin 
Moiiagl'en — do you see — lie liasirt got Monagleii ; jiorliaps 
ho may have it back some day.” 

“ And you,” she said, turning her clear eyes toward 
him, “ sometimes they call you Master ; is it right ? ” 

He laughed lightly. 

“ Oh, that is a formal title — in Scotland. Colonel Gra- 
ham makes a little ioke of it ; 1 suppose that is what you 
have heard.” 

“ I must not call you so ? ” 

“ Oh no.” And then he said, with a laugh : “ You may 
call me anything you like ; what’s the odds ? If you 
want to please my brother-in-law you should call him 
inverstroy.” 

“But how can I remember?” she said, holding up her 
fingers and counting. “Not Monaglen ; not Master; 
but yes, Investroy. And ]\Irs. Bell, shall I see her? ” 

“ Certainly, if you go there.” 

“And the mill-wheels, and the electric lamps, and all 
the strange things ? ” 

“ Oh yes, if Jack Melville takes a fancy to you. He 
doesn’t to everybody.” 

“ Oh, I am not anxious,” she said with a little dignity. 
“ I do not care much about such things. It is no matter 
to me.” 

“ I beg your pardon a thousand times 1 ” lie said, with 
much earnestness, “ Really, I was not thinking of what I 
was saying. I was thinking of Jack Melville’s ways. Of 
course he’ll be delighted to show you everything — he will 
be perfectly delighted. lie is awfully courteous to stran- 
gers. He will be quite delighted to show you the whole of 
his instruments and apparatus.” 

“ It is very obliging,” she said, with something of cold- 
ness, “ but there is no need that I shall be indebted to Mr 
Melville.” 

Not of Monaglen,” he said, demurely. 

“ Of Monaglen, or not of Monaglen,” she said, with high 
indifference. “ Come, shall we go and find my papa, and 
tell him about the wild, far jdace, and the Stream of the 
Fairies ? ” 

“No, wait a moment. Miss Winterbourne,” said he, 
with a touch of embarrjussment. “ You see, that shootiilg 
belongs to my fatlier. And I look after the letting of our 
shooting's and fishings when I am at home, though of course 


48 


YOLANDE. 


we have an agent. Now — now I don’t quite like taking 
advantage of a new friendship to — to make sncli a sugges- 
tion. 1 mean I would rather sink the shop. Perhajis youi 
father might get some other shooting up there.” 

“ But not with the Glen of the Black Fairies, and the 
strath, and Lynn Towers near the loch where the char are, 
and all that you have told me. No ; if I am not to see 
]Mrs. Beil — if I am not to see — ” She was going to say 
Mr. Melville of Monaglen, but she waved tliat aside with a 
gesture of petulance. “No, I wish to see all that y^ni have 
told me about, and I think it would be pleasant if we were 
neighbors.” 

“You really must have neighbors,” said he, eagerly, 
“ in a place like that. That is one thing certain. I am 
sure we should try to make it as pleasant for you as possi- 
ble. I am sure my father would. And Polly would be up 
sometimes — L mean Mrs. Graliam. Oh, I assure you, if it 
was any other shooting than Allt-nam-Ba I should be very 
anxious that you and your father should come and take it. 
Of course the lodge is not a gi-and place.” 

“ We will go and talk about it now,” she said, “ to my 
papa, and y®u can explain.” 

Now, as it turned out, although Mr. Winterbyurne was 
rather staggered at first by Yolande’s wild project of 
suddenly changing the idle luxuries of a Nile voyage for 
the severities of a moorland home in the North, there was 
something in the notion that attracted him. lie began to 
make inquiries. The solitariness, the remoteness, of the 
place seemed to strike him. Then 850 brace of gi-ouse, a 
few black game, a large number of mountain hares, and 
six stags was a good return for nine weeks’ shooting ; and 
the last tenant had not had exj^crts with him. Could 
Yolande have a piano or a harmonium sent to her away in 
that wdlderness? — anything to break the silence of the 
moors. And Mr. Winterbourne was unlike most peojde 
who arc contemplating the renting of a moor ; the cost of 
it was the point about which he thought least. But to be 
away up there — wfith Yolande. 

“ Of course it is just possible that the place may have 
been let since I left,” the Master of Lynn said. “We have 
not had it vacant for many years back. But that could 
easily be ascertained at Malta by telegram.” 

“ You think you would like the place, Yolande ?”hef 
father said. 


YOLANDE. 


49 


“ 1 tliink so ; yes.” 

“ Toil would not die of cold ? ” 

“Not willingly, papa — I mean I would try not — I am 
not afraid. You must go somewhere, papa ; there is no 
Parliament there ; you are fond of shooting ; and there 
will be many days, not with shooting, for you and rie to 
wander in tlie mountains. I think that will be nice.” 

“Very well. I will take the place, Mr. Leslie, if it is 
still vacant ; and I hope we shall be good neighbors ; and 
if you can send us a deer or two occasionally into tlie 
ravines you speak of, we shall be much obliged to you. 
And now about dogs, and gillies, and ponies.” 

But this proved to be an endless subject of talk between 
these two, both then and thereafter ; and so Yolande stole 
away to look after her own affairs. Amongst other things 
she got hold of the purser, and talked so coaxingly to him 
that he went and ordered the cook to make two sheets of 
toffee instead of one. and all of white sugar ; so that when 
Yolande subsequently held her afternoon levee among the 
children of the steerage passangers she was provided with 
sweetstuff enough to make the hearts of the mothers quake 
with fear. 

It was that evening that slie had to put the flowers 
overboard — on the wide and sad and uncertain grave. She 
did not wish any one to see her, somehow; she could not 
make it a public ceremony — this compliance with the pa- 
thetic, futile wishes of the poor mother. Slie had most 
cai-efully kept the flowers sprinkled with water, and despite 
of that they had *got sadly faded and shrivelled; but she 
had purchased another basketful at iilalta, and tliese were 
fresh enough. What mattered ? The time was too vague ; 
the vessel’s course too uncertain ; the trifles of lS)wers 
would soon be swallowed up in the solitary sea. But it 
was the remembrance of the mother she was thinking 
of. 

She chose a moment when every one was down below 
at dinner, and the deck was quite deserted. She took the 
two little baskets to the rail ; and there, very slowly and 
reverently, she took out handful after handful of the flowers 
and dropped them dowm on the waves, and watched them 
cro floating and floating out and out on the swaying waters. 

tears were running down her face ; but she had for- 
gotten w'hether there was anybody by or not. She was 
thinking of the poor woman in England. Would she know? 


60 


YOLANDE. 


Con]<ishe see ? Wns slie sure that her request would not 
be forgotten ? And indeed slie had not gone so far wrong 
when she had trusted to the look of Yolande’s face. 

Then, fearing her absence might be noticed, she went 
quickly to her cabin, bathed her eyes in cold water, and 
then V’ent below— where she found the little coterie at their 
end oi the table all much exercised about Mr. Winter- 
bourne’s proposal to spend the autumn among the wild soli- 
tudes of Allt-nam-Ba. He, indeed, declared he had nothing 
to do with it. It was Yolande’s doing. He had never 
heard of Allt-nam-Ba. 

“ It is one of the best grouse moors in Scotland, I admit 
that,” Colonel Graham said, with an ominous smile ; “ but 
it is a pretty stiffish place to work over.” 

“You talk like that, Jim,” said his wife (Avho seemed 
anxious that the Winterbournes should preserve their fancy 
for the place), “ because you are getting too stout for hill 
work. We shall find you on a pony soon. I should like to 
see you shooting from the back of a pony.” 

“ Better men than I have done that,” said Inverstroy, 
good-humoredly. 

They had a concert that night — not a ball, as was at 
first intended ; and there was a large assemblage, even the 
young gentlemen of the smoking-room having forsaken 
their Naj) when they heard that Mrs. Graham was going to 
sing. And very w^ell she sang, too, with a thoroughly 
trained voice of very considerable compass. She sang all 
the new society songs, about wild melancholics and regrets 
and things of that kind ; but her voice \vas really fine in 
quality ; and one almost believed for the moment that the 
pathos of these spasmodic things was true. And then her 
dress— how beautifully it fitted her neat little shoulders and 
waist ! Her curly short hair was surmounted by a coquet- 
tish cap ; she had a circle of diamonds set in silver round 
her neck ; but there were no rings to mar the symmetry of 
her plump and pretty white liands. And how assiduous 
those boy-oflicers were, although deprived of their cigars ! 
They hung round the piano ; they turned over the music 
for her — as well as an eyeglass permitted them to see ; nay, 
when she asked, one of them sent for a banjo, and performed 
a solo on that instrument — performing it very well too. 
None of the unmarried girls had the* ghost of a chance. 
Poor Yolande, in her plain pale pink gown, was nowhere. 
All ©yes were directed on the pretty little figure at the 


VOLAA^D/i. 


51 


r 


piano; on l^lie stylish costume ; the charming ]irofilc, with 
ith outward sweep of black lashes ; on the graceful arms 
and white fingers. For a smile from those clear dark gray 
eyes there was not one of the tall youths standing there 
who wmiild not have sworn to abjure sporting newspapers 
for the rest of liis natural life. 

There was only one draw’back to the concert, as a con- 
cert. To keep the saloon cool the large ports astern had 
been opened, and the noise of the wuater rushing away from 
the screw was apt to drown the music. 

“Miss Winterbourne,” some one said to Yolande — and 
she started, for she had been sitting at one of the tables, 
imagining herself alone, and dreaming about the music — 
“ one can liear far better on deck. Won’t you come up 
and try?” 

It was the Master of Lynn’. 

“ Oh yes,” said she ; “ thank you.” 

She went with him on dock, expecting to find her father 
there. But Mr. Winterbourne had gone to the smoking- 
room. What mattered ? All companions are alike on 
board ship. Young Leslie brought her a chair, and put it 
close to the skylight of the saloon, and he sat dowm there 
too. They could hear pretty well, and they could talk in 
the intervals. The night was beautifully quiet, and tlie 
moonlight wdiiter than ever on the decks. These Southern 
nights were soft and fitted for music; they seemed to blend 
the singing below' and the gentle rushing of the sea all 
around. And Yolande w'as so friendly — and frank to plain 
spokenness. Once or twdee she laughed ; it was a low, 
(]piiet, pretty laugh. 

Such were the perils of the deep that lay around them 
as they sailed along those Southern seas. And at last they 
were nearing INlalta. On the night before they expected to 
reach the island Mrs. Graham took occasion to have a quiet 
chat w'ith her brother. • 

“ Look here, Archie, we shall all be going ashore to- 
morrow, I suppose,” said she. 

“No doubt.” 

“ And I dare say,” she added, fixing her clear, pretty, 
ihrewd eyes on him, “ that you wdll be going away to the 
club with those young fellows, and w'e shall see nothing of 
you.” 

“We shall be all over the place, I suppose,” he answered- 


52 


YOLA.VDE. 


‘ Most likely I shall Iniich at the club. Graham can put 
me clown ; he is still a member, isn’t he ? ” 

“ It would be a good deal more sensible like,” said hia 
sister, “ if you gave us lunch at a hotel.” 

“ I ? ” ho cried, with a laugh. “ I like that ! Consider- 
ing my income and Inverstroy’s income, a proposal of that 
kind strikes one with a sort of coolness — ” 

“ I didn’t mean Jim and me only,” said Mrs. Graham, 
sharply. ‘‘Jim can pay for his own luncheon, and mine too. 
Why don’t you ask the Winterbournes ? ” 

This was a new notion altogether. 

“ They wouldn’t come, would they ? ” he said, diffident- 
ly. “ It is not a very long acquaintance. Still, they seem 
so friendly, and I’d like it awfully, if you think you could 
get Miss Winterbourne to go with you. Do you think you 
could, Polly? Don’t you see, we ought to pay them a com- 
pliment — they’ve taken Allt-nam-Ba.” 

“ Miss Winterbourne,” said Mrs. Graham, distantly, “ is 
going ashore with me to morrow. Of course vve must have 
lunch somewhere. If you men like to go to the club, very 
well I suppose we shall manage.” 

Well perhaps it was only a natural thing to suggest. 
The Winterbournes had been kind to him. Moreover, wo- 
men do not like to be left to walk up and down the Strada 
lleale by themselves when they know, that their hus- 
bands and brothers are enjoying themselves in the Union 
Club. But it is probable that neither Mrs. Graham nor 
the young Master of Lynn quite fully recollected that at- 
tentions and civilities which are simple and customary on 
board ship — which are a necessity of the case (people con- 
senting to become intimate and familiar through being con- 
stantly thrown together) — may, on land, where one returns 
to the conventionalities of existence, suddenly assume a 
very different complexion, and may even appear to have a 
iilartlmg significance. 


yulande. 


h% 


CHAPTER VII 

A DAY ASnORE. 

Most “ landward ” people, to use the Scotch phrase, 
would imagine that on board sliip ladies would be content 
with any rough-and-tumble costume that would serve all 
purposes from morning till night. But on a long voyage 
the very reverse is the case. Nowhere else do women dress 
with more elaborate nicety, and Avith such studied exhibi- 
tion of variety as their tolerably capacious Avardrobes per- 
mit. For one thing, they have- no more engrossing occupa- 
tion. They can sj^end hours in their cabin devising new 
combinations ; and as many of them are going to live abroad, 
they have with them all their Avorldly gear from AAdiich to 
pick and choose. It is a break in the monotony of the day 
to have one dress at breakfast, another for forenoon games 
and lunch, another for the afternoon promenade, another 
for the meal of state in the evening. Then nowhere else 
are Avell-made costumes seen to such advantage; the deck 
is a Avide stage, and there is the best of light for colors. 
Moreover, in a Avoman's eyes it is Avorth AAdiile to take 
trouble about dressing weW on board ship ; for it is no fleet- 
ing glance that rewards lier pains. The mere change of a, 
brooch at the neck is noticed. 

But all tlie innocent little displays that had been made 
during the long voyage Avere as nothing on board this ship 
to the grand transformation that took place in view of the 
landing at Malta. The great vessel was now lying silent 
and still, hei- scrcAV no longer throbbing, and instead of the 
wide, monotonous circle of Avater around her, here Avere 
»lue arms of the sea running into the gray-green island ; 
and great yelloAV bastions along the shore ; and over these 
again a pale Avhite and pink tOAvn straggling along the low- 
lying hills. After breakfast the men-folk Avere left in un- 
disturbed possession of the deck. They Avere not anxious 
about their costume — at least the middle-aged ones Avere 
not. They smoked their cigars, and leaned over the rail, 
and Avatched tiie swarm of gayly painted boats that were 
Availing to take them ashore. And perhaps some of them 


64 


YOLANDR. 


were beginning to wish the tliat women would look alive ; 
for already the huge barges filled with coal were drawing 
near, and soon the vessel would be enveloped in clouds of 
dust. 

Then the women began to come up, one by one ; but all 
transformed ! They were scarcely recognizable by mere 
acquaintances. There was about them the look of a Sunday 
afternoon in Kensington Gardens ; and it was strange 
enough on the deck of a ship. People who had been on 
siifliciently friendly terms now grew a little more reserved ; 
these land costumes reminded them that on shore they 
might have less claim to a free and easy companionship. 
And Mr. Winterbourne grew anxious. Did Yolande know ? 
The maid she had brought with her, and whose services she 
had agreed to share with Mrs. Graham, had been useless 
enough from the moment she })ut foot on board the ship ; 
but surely she must have learned what was going forward ? 
Perhaps Yolande would appear in her ordinary pale pink 
morning dress? She was far too content with simplicity 
in costume. Again and again he'had had to rebuke her. 

“Why don’t you have more dresses?” he had said to 
her on board this very ship. “ Look at Mrs. Graham. Why 
don’t you have as many dresses as Mrs. Graham? A mar- 
ried lady ? What dilference does that make ? I like to 
sec you prettily dressed. When I want you to save money, 
I will tell you. You can’t get them at sea? Well, of course 
not ; but you might have got them on shore. And if it 
meant more trunks, what is the use of Jane ? ” 

lie was a nervous and fidgety man, and he was beginning 
to be really concerned about Yolande’s appearance, when 
he caught a glimpse of Yolande herself coming out on to 
the deck from the companion way. He was instantly satisfied. 
There was nothing striking about her dress, it is true — the 
skirt and sleeves were of dark blue velvet, the rest of dark 
blue linen, and she wore her white silver belt — but at all 
events it was different ; and then the fiat dark blue Scotch 
cap looked pretty eno,ugh on her ruddy golden hair. In- 
deed, he need not have been afraid that Yolande would 
have appeared insignificant anyhow or anywhere. Her tall 
stature; her slender and graceful figure; her air and carri- 
age — all these rendered her quite sufiiciently distinguished- 
looking, even when one was not near enough to know any- 
thing of the fascination of her eyes and the pretty pathetic 
mouth. 


YOLANDE. 


55 

AikI yet lie was so anxious that she should acquit her- 
self well — he was so proud of her — that he went to her 
quickly and said, — 

“ That is one of the prettiest of your dresses, Yolande — • 
very pretty — and it suits your silver girdle very well; but 
the Scotch cap — well, that suits you too, you know — ” 

“ It is Mrs. Graham’s, papa. She asked me to wear it 
— in honor of Allt-nam-Ba.” 

“ Yes, yes,” he said. “ That is all very well — at Allt- 
nam-Ba. It is very pretty — and Jane has done your hair 
very nicely this morning — ” 

“ I have not had a glimpse of Jane this morning,” Yo- 
lande said with a laugh. “ Could I be so cruel? No. Mrs. 
Graham going ashore, and I to take Jane away — how could 
I ? ” 

“ I don’t like the arrangement,” her father said, with a 
frown. “ Why should you not have the help of your own 
maid ? But about the cap, Yolande — look, these other 
ladies are dressed as if they were going to church. The cap 
would be verv pretty at a garden party — at lawn tennis — ■ 
but I think—” 

“ Oh, yes I will put on a bonnet,” said Yolande, instant- 
ly. “ It is not to please Mrs. Graham, it is to please you, 
that I care for. One minute — ” 

But who was this who intercepted her? Not the lazy young 
fellow who used to lounge about the decks in a shooting coat, 
with a cigarette scarcely ever absent from his finger or lips ; 
but a most elegant young gentleman in tall hat and frock- 
coat, who was dresssed with the most remarkable precision, 
from his collar and stiff necktie to his snow-white gaiters 
and patent leather boots 

“Are you ready to go ashore, Miss Winterbourne?” 
«aid he, smoothing his gloves the while. “ My sister is just 
coming up.” 

“ In one minute,” said she : “ I am going for a bonnet 
instead of my Scotch cap — ” 

“ Oh, no,” he said, quickly ; “ please don’t. Please wear 
tlie cap. You have no idea how well it becomes you. And 
it would be so kind of you to pay a compliment to the 
Highlands — I think lialf tlie officers on board belong to the 
Seafurth Highlanders — and if we go to look at the club — ” 

“ No, thank you,” she said, passing liiin with a friendly 
smile. “ I am not going en vivandiere. Perhaps I will 
borrow the cap some other time — at Allt-nam-Ba.” 


66 


YOLANDE. 


Mr. Winterbourne overhe.nrd this little conversation — in 
fact, the three of tliein were ahnost standing together ; and 
vvlietlier it was that the general excitement throughout tlie 
vessel had also affected him, or whether it was that the mera 
sight of all these people in different costumes liad made hiui 
suddenly conscious of what Avere their real relations, not 
their ship relations — it certainly startled liim to hear the 
young Master of Lynn, apparently on the same familiar foot- 
ing as himself, advise Yolande as to what became her. The 
next step Avas inevitable. He was easily alarmed. He re- 
called his friend Shortlands’s remark — which lie had rather 
resented at the time — that a P. and 0. voyage would marry 
off anybody Avho Avanted to get married. He tliought of Yo- 
lande ; and he was stricken dumb Avith a nameless fear. Was 
she going aAvay from him ? Was some one else about to 
sujiplant liim in her affections ? Tiiese two had been in a 
very literal sense ail the world to each other. They had 
been constant companions. They knew few people ; for he 
lived in a lonely, nomadic kind of way ; and Yolande never 
seemed to care for any society but his own. And noAV was 
she going away from him ? ” 

Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had just ar- 
ranged to take her away into those Avild solitudes in the 
Highlands, Avhere the Leslies Avoiild be their only neighbors. 
It seemed more and more inevitable. But why not ? Why 
should not this ha|)])en? He nerved himself to face the 
Avorst. Yolande must marry some day. 1I« had declared 
to John Shortiands that he almost wished she would marry 
now. And how could she marry better? This young fel- 
low was of good birth and education ; well mannered and 
modest : altogether unexceptionable, as far as one could 
judge. And j\tr. Winterbourne had been judging, uncon- 
sciously to himself. He had observed in the smoking-room 
and elseAvhere that young Leslie was inclined to be 
cautious about the expenditure of money — at cai’ds or other- 
wise ; but was not that rather a good trait ? The family 
was not wealthy ; the present Lord Lynn had been engaged 
all his life in slowly leaving off the mortgages on the family 
estates; and no doubt this young fellow had been economi- 
cally brought up. And then again — if Yolande Avore to 
marry at all — would it not be better that she should be trans- 
fen*ed to that distant and safe solitude? Yolande as the 
mistress of Lynn ToAvers, far away there in the seclusion of 
the hills, living a ha]>[>y and peaceful life, free from scath and 


YOLANDE. 


57 


terror; th<at was a fancy tlint pleased liirn. It seemed no+ 
so terrible now that Yolaiide slioidd marry — at least — at 
least he would face the worst, and strive to look at the 
pleasanter as])ect of it. She would be far away and safe. 

d’hose anxious, rapid strup:grmg thoughts had not oc- 
cupied a couple of minutes. Yolande appeared, and he was 
almost afraid to regard her. Might there not be something 
of the future written in her face ? Indeed, there was noth- 
ing there but a pleasant interest about the going on shore : 
and when she accepted a little nosegay that the Master of 
I.ynn brought lier, and pinned it on her dress, itAvas with a 
smile of thanks, but with — to any unconcerned eye — the 
very frankest indifference. 

The Grahams now announced themseh^es as ready ; and 
the ])arty descended the gangway into the boat — young 
Leslie jjreceding them so as to hand Yolande into her place. 

“ Mr. Winterbourne,” said he, when they were all seated 
under the awning, and sailing away tlirough the lapping 
green Avater, “ I hope you and your daughter will come and 
lunch Avith us — ” 

“ Oh, yes of course,” said he : did they not make one 
pai-ty ? 

“ But Avhat I mean is this,” said the IMaster of Lynn ; “ I 
am giving those Graham people their lunch — the cormor- 
ants ! — and Lynn ToAvers is a long Avay off ; and I haven’t 
often the chance of ])laying host ; and so I want you and 
M iss Winterbourne also to be my guests at the Hotel.” 

“Oh, thanks; very Avell,” said Yolande’s father who 
had begun noAv to study this young man Avitk the most 
observant but cautious scrutiny, and Avas in a strange kind 
of AVay anxious to be pleased witli him. 

“ Why, I thought you Avere going to the club they were 
all speaking of,” said Yolande, staring at him. “ Captain 
Douglass told me so.” 

“ Captain Douglass tliinks he knoAvs everything,” said 
young Leslie, good-naturedly; “ Avhereas he knoAVS nothing 
except hoAV to play sixpenny loo.” 

“ButAve Avill all go to tlie club. Miss Yolande,” said 
Colonel Graham, “and you shall see the ballroom. Very 
fine. I don’t know Avhat the high-art fellows noAvadays 
would think of it. I used to think it uncommonly fine 
m by-gone times. Gad, I’m not so fond of dancing now.” 

“ You can dance as Avell as ever you did, Jim, only 
you’re so hvxy,” his Avife said, sharply. 


58 


YOLANDE. 


“ You’]] have to "ive tliem a torc])]ig]it dance, Archie,'' 
the coioiiel continued, “ llio first stag Mr. Winterbourne 
kills. Miss Yolande u'ould like to look at tliat. And vou’re 
pretty good yourself at tlie sword dance. I once could ilo 
it, in a way — ” 

“ Jim, t won’t liave you talk as if you were an old man,” 
his wife said, angrily. “ I don’t care about you ; I care 
about myself. I won’t have you talk like that. Everybody 
on board thinks I’m forty.” 

You are not so young as you once were, you know, 
Polly.” 

But Mrs. Graham was much too radiant a coquette to 
be })ut out by any im])crtinent s])eech like that. Slie was 
too sure of herself. She knew wliat her glass told her — 
and the half-concealed admiration of a Vvhole shipful of 
people. She could afford to treat such S2)eeclies with con- 
tempt. And so they readied the shore. 

They refused to have a carriage ; preferring rather to 
climb away up the steej) stejis, and away up the steep little 
streets, until they readied those high and narrow thorough- 
fares (with tlieir pink and yellow houses and prc'ily balconies, 
and green casements) that Avere so cool and pleasant to 
Avander through. Sometimes the sun, though shut out, 
sent a reflected light down into these streets in so jieculiar 
a fashion that the pink fronts of the houses looked quite 
transparent, and not unfrequently, at the far end of the 
thoroughfare, the vista was closed in by a narrow band of 
the deepest and intensest blue — the high horizon-line of tlie 
distant sea. They went up to St. John’s Bastion to look 
at the wilderness of geraniums and lotus-trees. They went 
to St. John’s Church. They went to the telegrajih office, 
where the Master of Lynn sent off this message : — 

Archibald Leslie:, Hotel Malta. 

llonald MaePherson, High Street^ Liverness. 

Consider Allt-nam~Pa, if mdet^ taken by W'interbourne^ 
M. P. Slagpool., Seven hundred fifty. Reply . 

They went to see the Governor’s Garden, and, in short, 
all the sights of the place ; but what charmed the women- 
folks most of all was, naturally, the great ballroom at the 
tlnion Club. As they stood in the big, empty, hollo w- 
resonnding jilace, Yolande said : — 

‘^Oh yes, it is beautiful. It must be cool, with such a 


YOLANDE. 59 

high roof. Papa, liave tliey as fine a ballroom at the Ke- 
fonn Club?” 

“The Reform Club?” her father repeated — rather 
vexed tliat she should make such a blunder. “ Of course 
not. Who ever heard of such a thing ! ” 

“ Why not ? ” she said. “ Every one says this is a good 
club — and very Englisli. Why not at the Reform Club? 
Is that wliy you liave never taken me there?” 

'‘Well, it is — it is devilisli English looking,” said 
Colonel Graham to his wife as they xurned into the long 
and cool coffee-room, wliere tliere were rows of smalLtables, 
all nicely furnished out. “ I like it. It reminds me of old 
times. I like to see the fellows in the old uniforms; it 
makes one’s heart warm. Hanged if I don’t have a glass 
of sherry and bitters, just to see if it tastes like the real 
thing — or a brandy and soda. It’s devilish like home. I 
don’t like being waited on by these Lascar-Portuguese-half- 
nigger fellows. My chap said to me yesterday at break- 
fast, when I asked for poached eggs, ‘No go yet — Avhen go 
bell me bring.’ And another fellow, when I asked for my 
bath, said, ‘ Hot water no go — when go hot water, me tell.’ 
By Gad ! there’s old Monroe — the fellow that nailed the 
Sepoys at Aziinghur — he’s got as fat as a turkey-cock — ” 

Indeed, the members of the club — mostly ofiicers 
apparently — were now coming in to lunch ; and soon 
Colonel Graham was fairly mobbed liy old friends and 
acquaintances, insomuch that it was with dilliculty he was 
drawn away to the banquet that young Leslie — taking 
advantage of the stay of tlie party in St. John’s Church — 
had had prepared for them at the hotel. It was a modest 
feast, but merry enough ; and the table was liberally 
adorned with Mowers, of which there is no lack in Malta. 
Colonel Gr:iham was much excited with meeting these old 
friends, and had a gi-eat deal to say about them ; his wife 
was glad to have a rest after so much walking. Yolande 
was naturally interested in the foreign look of the place 
and the peoide ; and young Leslie, delighted to have the 
honor of being host, played that part with much tact and 
modesty and skill. 

To Mr. Winterbourne it was strange. Yolande seemed 
to half belong to these people already. Mrs. Grahani 
ap})eared to claim her as a sister. Oji board ship these 
things were not so noticeable ; for o,f course they met at 
meals ; aud the same groups that were formed at table had 




YOLANDR. 


a tendency to draw together again on deck or in the saloon. 
But here was this small party cut off from all the rest of the 
passengers, and they were entirely on the footing of old 
friends, and the Master of Lynn’s anxiety to please Yolande 
was most marked and distinct. On board ship it would 
scarcely have been noticed’; here it was obvious to the 
most careless eye. And yet, when he turned to Yolande 
herself, who, as might have been imagined, ought to hav<» 
been conscious that she was being singled out for a very spo 
cial attention and courtesey, he could read no such conscious- 
ness in her face — nothing but a certain pleasant friendliness 
and indifference.” 

After luncheon they went away for a long drive to see 
more sights, and in the afternoon returned to the hotel, be- 
fore going on board. Young Leslie was thinking of leaving 
instructions that the telegram from Inverness should be for- 
warded on to Cairo, when, fortunately, it arrived. It read 
curiously : — 

Ronald MaePherson^ 

Estate €und Colliery Agents 
High Street, Inverness. 

The Honorable the Masiar of Lynn., 

of the P. and 0. Company's Steam-ship , 

2Vie Hotel, Malta. 

Right. 

“Now what on earth — Oh, I see! ” exclaimed the re- 
cipient of this telegram, after starting at it in a bewdldered 
fashion for a moment. “ I see. Here is a most beautifu 
joke. MaePherson has wanted to be clever — has found out 
that telegraphing to Malta is pretty dear ; thinks he will 
make tlie message as short as possible, but will take it out in 
the address. I am certain that is it. lie has fancied the ad- 
di-ess was free, as in England ; and he has sent his clerk to 
the office. Won’t the clerk catch it v*dien he goes back and 
gays what he has paid ! That is real Highland shrewdness. 
Never mind ; you have got tlie shooting. Sir. Winterbourne. 

“ I am glad of that. ” said Yolande’s father, rather 
absently; for now, wlieii he thought of the solitudes of Allt- 
nain-ba, it \vas not of stags, or grouse, or mountain hares, 
that he was thinking. 

They got on board .again, and almost immcdiatGly W'ent 
below to j)repare for dinner, for the decks were still dirtv 


YOLANDh. 


61 


with tne coal dust. And thOv night they were again at sea 
— far away in tlie silences ; and a small group of them were 
np at tlie end of the saloon, practising glees for the next 
grand concert. Mr. Winterbourne Avas on deck, walking up 
and down, alone; and perhaps trying to fancy how it would 
be with him when he was really left alone, and Yolande en- 
tirely away from him, with other cares and occupations. 
And he was striving to convince himself that that would bt 
best; that he would himself feel happier if Yolande’s future 
in life wed’e secured ; if he could see her the -contented and 
proud mistress of Lynn Towers. Here on board this ship, 
it might seem a hard thing that they should separate, even 
though the separation were only a mitigated one ; but if they 
were back in England again, he kncAv those terrible fears 
would again beset him, and that it would be the first wish 
of his heart that Yolande should get married. At Lynn 
Towers he might see her sometimes. It was remote, and 
quiet, and safe ; sometimes Yolande and he would walk to- 
gether there. 

MeaiiAvhile doAvn below they had finished their practic- 
ing ; and the Master of Lynn Avas idly turning over a book 
of glees. 

“ Polly,” said he to his sister, “ I like that one as well as 
any — I mean the words. Don’t you think they apply very 
well to Miss Winterbourne?” 

His sister took the book and read Sheridan’s lines : 

“Marked you her eye of heavenly blue ? 

^Marked you her cheek of roseate hue ? 

That eye in liquid circles moving ; 

Tliat cheek abashed at man’s approving 
The one loA'e’s arroAVS darting round. 

The other blushing at the wound. 

Well, the music of this glee is charming, and the words are 
well enough ; but when the Master of Lynn ventured tlm 
opinion th.at these AA^ere a good description of Yolande, he 
never made a worse shot in his life. Yolande “abashed at 
man’s approving”? She let no such nonsense get into lior 
head. She Avas a little too proud for that — or perhaps only 
careless and indifferent. 


62 


YOLANDE, 


CHAPTER yilL 

RECONNAISSAKCES. 

“ I don’t believe in any such simplicity. Men may 
women don’t. It seems to me more the simplicity of an 
accomplished flirt.” 

The speaker was Mrs. Graham, and she spoke with an 
air of resentment. 

“You don’t know her,” said the Master of Lynn, with 
involuntary admiration. 

“I suppose you think you do,” his sister said, with a 
“superior” smile. And then — perhaps she was tired of 
heai-ing so much in praise of Yolande, or perhaps she wished 
her brother to be cautious, or perhaps she was merely gra- 
tuitously malicious — she said, “ I’ll tell you Avhat it is: I 
should not be at all surprised to hear that she was engaged, 
and has been engaged for any length of time.” 

He was struck silent by this fierce suggestion ; it be- 
wildered him for a second or two. Then he exclaimed: — 

“Ob, that is absurd — perfectly absurd ! I know she is 
not.” 

“ It would be a joke,” continued his sister, with a sar- 
donic smile, “ if that were the explanation of the wonderful 
friendliness that puzzles you so much. If she is engaged, 
of course she has no further care or embarrassment. Every- 
thing is settled. She is as frank with Dick as with Tom 
and IlArry. Oh, Archie, that would be a joke I How Jim 
would laugh at you ! ” 

“ But it isn’t true,” he said, angrily, “ and you know it 
isn’t. It is quite absurd.” 

“ I will find out for you if you like,” his sister said, 
calmly. And here the conversation ceased, for Colonel 
Graham at this moment came along to ask his brother-in- 
law for a light. 

They were again away from the land, perhaps even for- 
getful that such a thing existed. It seemed quite natural 
to get up morning after morning to find around them the 
^ame bright, brilliant monotony of white-crested blue sea* 
and sunlit decks and fair skies ; and each day passed with 


YOLANDE, 


63 


the iisiinl nmiisenients ; and then came the still moonlight 
night, with all its mysterious charm and loneliness. It was 
a delightful life, especially for the Grahams and Winter- 
bournes, who were going nowhere in ])articular, hut had 
come chiefly for the voyage itself. And it was a life the 
very small incidents of which excited interest, simply be- 
cause peoifle had plenty of time to consider them — and 
each other. 

There was no doubt that Yolande had become a pretty 
general favorite; for she found herself very much at home ; 
and she put aside a good deal of that reserve which she 
assumed in travelling on land. These people could in no 
sense be considered strangers ; they were all too kind to 
her. The ship’s oflicers brought her the charts out of the 
chart-room, to show her how far the vessel had got on her 
course. The captain allowed her to go on the bridge, and 
gave her his own glass when a distant sail was to be seen. 
And the young soldiers, when they were not in the smoking- 
room, and when they were not picking up rope quoits for 
Mrs. Graham, had an eye on the many strayed birds flutter- 
ing about, and when they could they caught one and brought 
it to Miss Winterbourne, who was glad to take the wild-eyed 
fluttering wanderer down into the saloon and put its beak 
for a second or two into a glass of fresli water. The swal- 
lows were the most easily caught ; they were either more 
exhausted or more tame than the quails and thrushes and 
ringdoves. Once or twice Yolande herself caught one of 
these swallows, and the beautiful bronze-blue creature seemed 
not anxious to get away from her hand. Mrs. Graham said 
it was too ludicrous to see the major of a Highland regi- 
ment — a man six feet two in height, with a portentously 
grave face — screw his eyeglass into its place, and set off to 
stalk a dead-tired thrush, pursuing it along the awning, and 
from boat to boat. But all the same these w^arriors seemed 
pleased enough when they could bring to Yolande one of 
these trembling captives, and when she took the poor thing 
carefully into her hands, and looked up, and said, “ Oh, 
thank you.” It ought to be mentioned tliat the short upper 
lip of the girl, though it had the pathetic droop at the 
corners -which has been mentioned — and which an artist 
friend of the writer says ought to have been described as 
Cupid’s bow being drawn slightly — lent itself very readily 
to a smile. 

Mrs. Graham -w’atched for a chance of speaking to 


64 


YOLANDE. 


Yolande, and soon found it. She went to the girl, who was 
standing by the rail on tlie hurricane-deck, and put her arm 
most affectionately round lier, and said : — • 

“ My dear child what are you staring into the sea for? 
Do you expect to see dolphins ? ” 

“ I was wondering what made the water so blue,” said 
she, raising herself somewhat. “ It is not the sky. If you 
look at the water for awhile, and turn to the sky, the sky 
is a pale washed-out ])urple. What a wonderful blue it is, 
too ; it seems to me twenty times more intense than the 
blue of the water along the Riviera.” 

“ Y^ou have been along the Riviera? ” 

“ Oh, two or three times,” said Y’olande. “ We always 
go that way into Italy.” 

“You must have travelled a great deal, from what I 
hear.” 

“Yes,” said Y’olande, with a slight sigh, “ I am afraid it 
is a great misfortune. It is papa’s kindness to me; but I 
am sorry. It takes him away. At one time he said it was 
my education ; but now we both laugh at that — for a pre- 
tence. Oh, I assure you we are such bad travellers — we 
never go to see anything that we ought to see. When we 
go to Venice we go to the Lido and the sands, but to the 
churches ? — no. In Egypt you wdll have to do all the sight- 
seeing ; you will find us, oh, so very lazy that you cannot 
imagine it; you will go and see the tombs and the inscrip- 
tions, and papa and I, we will take a walk and look at the 
river until you come back.” 

“ What a strange life to have led ! ” said her friend, who 
had her own point in view. “ And among all your wander- 
ings did you never meet the one w^ho is to be nearer and 
dearer ? ” 

“ Nearer and dearer? ’’said Yolande, looking puzzled. 
Papa is nearer and dearer to me than any one or anything 
— naturally. That is why we are always satisfied to be to- 
gether ; that is what makes our travelling so consoling — 
no — so — so contented.” . 

“But what I mean is — now forgive me, dear Yolande ; 
you know I’ln^a very impertinent woman — I mean, in all 
your travels, have you never come across some one whom 
you would care to marry ? Indeed, indeed, you must have 
met many a one who would have been glad to carry you 
off — that I can tell you without flattery.” 

“Indeed, not any one,” said Y^olande, with a perfectly 


YOLANDE, 


65 


frank laugh, ‘‘ That is not what I would ever think of. 
That is uot what I wish.” And then slie added, with an 
air of sadness : “ Perhaps I am never to have what I wish 
— it is a pity, a misfortune.’' 

“ What is it then, dear Yolande? In your father’s posi- 
tion I don’t see what there is in the world he could uot get 
for you. You see I am curious; I am very impertinent; 
i>ut I should like to treat you as my own sister ; I am not 
quite old enough to act as a mother to you, for all that Jim 
says.” 

“ Oh, it is simple enough ; it does not sound difficult,” 
Yolande said. “ Come, we will sit down, and I will tell 
you.” 

They sat dowm on two deck-chairs that happened to be 
handy, and Mrs Graham took the girl’s hand in hers, because 
she really liked her, although at times human nature broke 
down, and she thought her husband was carrying his praises 
of Yolande just a tride too far. 

“ When I have met English ladies abroad,” said Yolande, 
“ and the one or two families I knew in Loudon, it was so 
nice to hear them talk of their homes — perhaps in the 
country, where every one seemed to know them, and they 
had so many interests, so many affections. They were 
proud of that. It was a tie. They were not merely wan 
derers. Even your brother, dear Mrs. Graham, he has filled 
me with envy of him when he has told me of the district 
around Lynn Towers, and seeming to know every one, and 
always settled there, and capable to make friends for a life- 
time, not for a few hours in a hotel. What place do I real- 
ly know in the woi^ld ; what place do they really know me ? 
A little village in France that you never heard of. And I 
am English. I am not French. Ah, yes, that is what I 
have many a time w'ished — that my papa would have a 
house like others — in the country? — yes — or in the town? 
— yes — what does that matter to me ? And I should make 
it pretty for him, and he would have a home — not a hotel ; 
also I have thought of being a secretary to him, but perhaps 
tliat is too much beyond what is possible. Do you tliink I 
can imagine anything about marrying when this far more 
serious thing is what I Vvush ? Do you think that any one 
can be nearer and de.aivor to me than the one who lias given 
me all his affection, all his life, who thinks only of me, who 
has sacrificed already far too much for me ? Who else has 
done that for me ? And you would not have me ungrateful ? 


66 


‘OLANDE. 


Besides, also, it is selfish. I do not like the society of any 
one nearly so much ; why should I change for a stranger? 
But it is not necessary to speak of that ; it is a stupidity. 
But now I have told you what I wish for, if it were pos- 
sible.” 

Mrs. Graham was convinced. There was no affectation 
here. The Master of Lynn had no rival, at all events. 

“ Do you know, my dear child, you talk very sensibly,” 
said she, patting her hand. “ And I don’t see why your 
papa should not give you two homes — one in the country 
and one in town — for I am sure every one says he is wealtliy 
enough. But perhaps this is the reason. Of course you 
will marry — no, stay a minute — I tell you, you are sure to 
marry. Why, the idea ! Well, then, in that case, it might 
be better for your papa not to have a household to break 
up; he could attend to his Parliamentary duties very well 
if he lived in the Westminster Palace Hotel, for example, 
and be free from care — ” 

Yolande’s mouth went very far down this time. 

“Yes, that may be it,” she said. “Perhaps that will 
happen. I know I have taken away too much of his time, 
and once, twice perhaps, we have had jokes about my be- 
ing married ; but this was the end, that when my papa tells 
me to marry, then I will marry. I must go somewhere. 
If I am too much of a burden — and sometimes I am very 
sad, and think that I am — then he must go and bring some 
one to me, and say, ‘Marry him.’ And I will marry him 
■ — and hate Jvm.'' 

“ Gracious heavens, child, what are you saying ! Of* 
course, if ever you should marry, you will choose for your- 
self.” 

“ It is not my affair,” said Yolande, coldly. “ If I am to 
go away, I will go away; but I shall hate the oue that 
takes me away.” 

Yolande,” said her friend, seriously, “you are making 
it rather hard for your father. Perhaps I have no right to 
interfere ; but you have.no mother to guide you; and real- 
ly you talk such — such absurdity — ” 

“But how do I make it hard for my papa?” said 
Yolande, quickly looking up with an anxious glance. “Am 
I a constraint ? Do you think there is something he would 
do ? Am I in his way — a burden to him ? ” 

“No, no, no,” said the other, good-lmmoredly. “ Why 
should you think any such thing ? I was only referring to 


YOLANDE, 


67 


the madness of your own fancy. The idea that your father 
is to choose a husband for you — whom you will hate ! Now 
suppose that you are a burden — I believe I informed you 
that I was a very impertinent woman, and now I am an 
intermeddler as well — suppose that your father would like 
to take a more active part in public affairs, and that he 
knows you are opposed to the very notion of getting mar- 
ried. He is in a painful dilemma. He won’t tell you that 
you are rather interfering with his Parliamentary worlc 
And most assuredly he won’t recommend you to marry 
any one, if you are going to marry with a deadly grudge 
against your husband.” 

Yolande thought over this for some minutes. 

“ I suppose it is true,” she said, rather sadly. “ He 
would not tell me. He has said 1 kept him away from the 
House of Commons, but then it was only amusement and 
joking. And I — I also — have many a time been fearing it 
was not right he should wasie so much care on me, when 
no one else does that with their daughters. Why does he 
go to the House ? Partly because it is his duty to work for 
the country — to see that it is well governed — partly to make 
fame, which is a noble ambition. And then I interfere. He 
thinks I am not quite well, when I am quite well. He thinks 
I am dull, when I am not dull — when I would rather read his 
speech in the newspapers than go anywhere. But always the 
same — I must go and be amused ; and Parliament and every- 
thing is left behind. It was not so bad when I was at the 
Chateau ; then I was learning; but even then he was always 
coming to seenie and to take me away. And when I used to 
say, * Papa, why don’t you take me to England ? I am English, 
I want to see my own country, not other countries,’ — it 
was always ‘ You will see enough of England by and by. 
But when I go to England, look ! it is the same — always 
away again, except a week or two, perhaps, at Oatlands 
Park, or a day or two in London ; and I have not once 
been to the House of Commons, where every one goes, and 
even my papa is vexed that I do not know they have not 
a ballroom at the Reform Club ! ” 

“ \Yell, dear Yolande, you have led a queer sort of life; 
but, after all, was not your father wise ? He could not have 
a liousehold with a schoolgirl to look after it. But now I 
can see that all this will be changed, and you will liave no 
more fears that you are a restraint. Of course you will 
marry, and you will be very happy, and your papa will 


C8 


YOLANDE. 


have your home to go to at the Easter holidays : and you 
will go up to town to liear him speak in the House, and he 
will have a fair chance in politics. So that is all arranged, 
and you are not to have any wild or fierce theories. There 
goes dressing-bell — come along ! ” 

Day after day passed without change. The young 
Master of Lynn had been re-assured by his sister ; and very 
diligently, and with a JacoWike modesty and patience, he 
strove to win Yolande’s regard; but a though she was always 
most friendly towards him, and pleased to chat with him, 
or walk the hurricane deck with him, she seemed to treat 
him precisely as she treated any of the others. If there was 
one whom she especially favored, it was Colonel Graham, 
whose curt, sardonic speeches amused her. 

At last they arrived at Port Said, that curious, rectangu- 
lar -streeted, shanty-built place, that looks like Cheyenne 
painted pink and white ; and of course there was much 
woinler and interest in beholding land again, and green 
water, and the swarmiiig boats with their Greeks and 
Maltese and negroes and Arabs, all in their various cos- 
tumes. But it was with a far greater interest that they re- 
garded the picture around them when the vessel had started 
again, and was slowly and silently stealing away into the 
wide and lonely desert land by means of this water highway, 
ddie Suez Canal had been rather a commonplace phrase to 
Yolande, mixed up with monetary affairs mostly, and sug- 
gestive of machinery. But all this was strange and new, 
and the vessel was going so slowly that the engines were 
scarcely heard ; she seemed to glide into this dreamworld 
of silver sky and far-reaching wastes of yellow sand. It 
was so silent and so wide and so lonely. For the most part 
the horizon-line was a mirage, and they watched the con 
tinual undulation of the silver white waves, and even the 
strange refiections of what apeared to be islands ; but here 
there was not even a palm to break the nonotony of the 
desert — only the little tamarisk bushes dotting the sand. 
From a marsh a red-legged flamingo rose, slowly winging 
its way to the south. Then a string of camels came along 
with forward stretching heads and broad, slow-pacing feet, 
the Bedouins either perched on the backs of the animals oi 
stridin^^ through the sand by their side, their faces looking 
black in contrast to their white wide-flowing garments 
And so they glided through the silent gray, silver, world. 

The night saw another scene. They were anchored in 


YOLANDE. 


69 


a narrow part of the canal, where the banks were hi^h and 
steep, and the moonlight was surpassingly vivid. On one 
of these banks — it seemed a great mountain as it rose to the 
dark blue vault where the stars were — the moonlight threw 
the shadow of the rigging of the ship so shar])ly that every 
spar aiid rope was traced on the silver clear sand. There 
was an almost oppressive silence in this desert solitude ; a 
dark animal that came along through the tamarisk bushes — • 
some said it was a jackal — disappeared up and over the 
sand mountain like a ghost. And in the midst of this weird 
cold moonlight and silence these people began to get up a 
dance after dinner. The piano was brought on deck from 
the saloon. The women-folk had put on their prettiest 
costumes. There had been perhaps (so it was said) a little 
begging and half-promising going on beforehand. The 
smoking-room was deserted. From the supports of the 
awnings a number of large lanterns had been slung, so that 
when the ladies began to appear, and when the first notes 
of the music were heard, the scene was a very animated 
and pretty one, but so strange with the moonlit desert 
around. 

The Master of Lynn had got hold of Yolaiide ; he had 
been watching for her appearance. 

“ I hope you will give me a dance, Miss Winterbourne,” 
said he. 

“ Oh yes, with pleasure,” said she, in the most friendly 
way. 

“ There are no programmes, of course,” said he. And 
one can’t make engagements; but I think a very good rule 
in a thing like this is that one should dance with one’s 
friends. For myself, I don’t care to dance with strangers. 
It doesn’t interest me. I think when people form a party 
among themselves on board ship — well, I think they should 
keep to themselves.” 

“Oh, but that is very selfish, is it not?” Yolande said. 
“We are not supposed to be strangers with any one after 
being on board ship so long together.” 

“Miss Winterbourne, may I have the pleasure of danc- 
ing this waltz with you ?” said a tall, solemn man witli an 
eyeglass ; and the next moment the Master of Lynn beheld 
Yolande walking toward that cleared space with Majoi 
Mackinnon, of the Seaforth Highlanders ; and as to what he 
thought of the Seaforth Highlanders, and what he hoped 


70 


YOLANDE, 


would happen to them, from their colonel down to their 
pipe-major, it is unnecessary to say anything here. 

But Yolande did give him the i:hext dance, which molli- 
fied him a little — not altogether, however, for it was only 
a square. The next was a Highland Schottische ; and by 
ill luck he took it for granted that Yolande, having been 
brought up in France, would know nothing about it; so 
he went away and sought out his sister. Their perforinanca 
was the feature of the evening. No one else thought of 
interfering. And it was very cleverly and prettily and 
artistically done ; i oniuch that a round of applause 
greeted them at the end, even from the young Highland 
officers, who considered that young Leslie might just as 
well have sought a partner elsewhere instead of claiming 
his own sister. Immediately after, the Master of Lynn re- 
turned to Yolande. 

“ Ah, that is very pretty,” she said. “No wonder they 
approved you and clapped their hands. It is the most 
picturesque of all the dances, especially when there are 
only two, and you have the whole deck for display. In a 
ballroom, perhaps no.” 

“You must learn it. Miss Winterbourne, before you 
come North,” said he. “ We always dance it in the North.” 

“ Oh, but I know it very well,” said Yolande quietly. 

“You?” said he, in an injured way. “ Why didn’t 
you tell me ? Do you think I wanted to dance with my 
sister, and leave you here ? ” 

“But Mrs. Graham and you danced it so prettily — oh, 
so very well indeed — ” 

There was somebody else approaching them now — for the 
lady at the piano had that instant begun another walt%- 
This was Captain Douglas also of the Seaforth Highlanders. 

“ Miss Winterbourne, if you are not engaged will you 
give me this waltz ? ” 

Yolande did not hesitate. Why should she ? She was 
not engaged. 

“ Oh yes, thanks,” said she, with much friendliness, and 
she rose and took Captain Douglas’s arm. 

But Leslie'could not beav this perfidy, as he judged it. 
He would have no more to do with the dance, or with her. 
Without a word to any one he went away to the smoking- 
room, and sat down there, savage and alone. He lit a 
cigar, and smoked vehemently. 

“ Polly talks about men being bamboozled by women,” 


YOLANDE. 


71 


he was tliinking bitterly. “ She knows nothing about it. 
It is women who know notliing about women ; tliey hide 
themselves from each other. But she was riglit on ono 
point. That girl is the most infernal flirt that overstepped 
the earth.” 

And still, far away, he could hear the sound of the 
music, and also the stranger sound — like a whispering of 
silken wings — of feet on the deck. He was angry and indig- 
nant. Yolande could not be blind to his constant devotion 
to her, and yet she treated him exactly as if he were a 
stranger — going off with the first-comer. Simplicity ! His 
sister was ri'gbt — it v.\as the simplicity of a first class flirt. 

And still the waltz went on ; and he heard the winnow- 
ing sound of the dancers’ feet ; and his thoughts were 
bitter enough. He was only five-and-twenty ; at that age 
hopes and fears and disappointments are em])hatic and 
near ; probably it never occurred to him to turn from the 
vanities of the hour, and from the petty throbbing anxie- 
ties and commonplaces of everyday life, to think of the 
awful solitudes all around him there — the voiceless, world- 
old desert lying so dim and sti-ange under the moonlight 
and the stars, its vast and mysterious heart quite pulseless 
and calm. 


CHAPTER IX. 

CLOUDS. 


Xext morning, quite unconscious that she had dealt any 
deadly injury to any one, Yolande was seated all by herself 
on the hurricane-deck, idly and carelessly and happily 
drinking in fresh clear air, and looking away over the wastes 
of golden sand to a strip of intense dark blue that was soon 
to reveal itself as the waters of a lake. She was quite alone 
The second officer had brought her one of the ship’s glasses, 
and had then (greatly against his will) gone on the bridge 
again. The niorning was fair and shining; the huge 
steamer was going placidly and noiselessly through the still 
water; if Yolande was thinking of anything, it was proba- 


YOLANDE. 


al)ly that she had never seen her father so pleased and con- 
tented as on this long voyage ; and perhaps she was won- 
dering whether, after all it might not be quite as well tliat 
he should give up Parliament altogether, so that they two 
might wander away through the world, secure in each 
other’s company. 

Nor was she aware that at this precise moment her 
future was being accurately arranged for her in one of the 
cabins below. 

“ I confess I don’t see where there can be the least ob- 
jection.” Mrs. Gi'aham was saying to her husband (who 
was still lying in his berth, turning over the pages of a 
novel), as she fixed a smart mob-cap on her short and pretty 
curls. “ I have looked at it every way. Papa may make a 
fuss about Mr. Winterbourne’s politics, but there are sub- 
stantial reasons why he should say as little as possible. 
Just think how he has worked at the improving of the estate 
— all his life — and with scarcely any money; and just 
fancy Archie coining in to complete the thing ! I know 
what I would do. I would drain and plant the rushed 
slopes, and build a nice lodge there; and then I would take 
the sheep oft Allt-nam-I3a, and make it a small forest ; and 
it would let for twice as much again. Oh Jim, just fancy 
if Archie were to be able to buy back Corrie^u•eak ! ” 

Her husband flung the book aside, and put his hands 
under his head. His imagination was at work. 

“ If 1 were Archie,” he said, with his eyes fixed on 
vacancy, “ I would make Corrievreak the sanctuary ; that’s 
what I would do. Then I would put a strip of sheep up 
the Glenbuie side to fence off Sir John ; do you see that, 
Polly ? And then I would take the sheep off Allt-narn-Ba, 
as you say, only I would add on All-nani-Ba to Lynn. Do 
y.ou see that? What made your grandfather part with 
Corrievreak I don’t know. Fancy having the sanctuary 
within two miles of a steamboat pier : it’s a standing temp- 
tation to all the poachers in the country ! Now if you take in 
Allt-nam-Ba, and make Corrievreak the sanctuary, and 
if you’d hold your hand for a year or two in the letting, 
you’d soon have one of the best forests in Scotland. But 
letting is the mischief. Those fellows from the south shoot 
anything on four legs they can get at. Forty years ago the 
finest stags in Invernessshire were found round and about 
Corrievreak; the Fork Augustus lads knew that, they used 
to say. Oh, I quite agree with you. I think it would be 


YOLANDE, 


73 


an uncommon good match. And then Archie would have 
a house in town, 1 supjmse ; and they might put us up for 
a week or two in tlie season. Tit for tat's fair play. He 
has tlie run of Inverstroy when there isn’t a bit of rabbit- 
shooting left to him at Lynn.” 

“'Well, but there’s just this, you know, Jim,” his wife 
said, with an odd kind of smile. “We know very liitle 
about what kind of girl she is, and Archie knows less than 
we do.” 

“ Oh, she’s well enough,” said the stout soldier, carelessly. 
That was a subsidiary point. What his mind clearly 
grasped was the importance of having Corrievreak made 
the sanctuary of the deer forest. 

“ She is well enough, no doubt,” his wife said ; and as 
she had finished her toilette she now stood and regarded, 
him, with a demure kind of hesitation in her face, as if she 
were afraid to confess hv.v thoughts. “ She is well enough. 
She has good manners. She is distingushed-looking, for a 
girl of her age ; and you know all the money in Slagpool 
wouldn’t induce })a])a to receive a dov dy daughter-in-law. 
And she doesn’t dirt — unless — well, it’s just ])ossible she 
knows that that indifference of hers is attractive to young 
men ; it puts them on their mettle, and touches their van- 
ity. But after all, Jim, we know very little about the girl. 
We don’t know what sort of a wife she would make. She 
has come through nothing ; less than most girls ; for she 
might as well have been in a convent as in that Chateau, 
And of course she can’t expect life always to be as pleasant 
for her; and — and — she has come through no crisis to show 
what kind of stuff she is made of ; and we might all be mis- 
taken — ” 

“ Oh, I see wliat you’re driving at,”’ her husband said, 
with just a touch of contempt, “ Don’t be alarmed; I dare 
say Archie isn’t anxious to marry a tragedy queen. I don’t 
see why Miss Winterbourne should be put to any fiery trial, 
or should have to go through mortal agonies, any more than 
the majority of young women in exceptionally eaSy circum- 
stances. And if she should, I have no doubt she will show 
common-sense, and men prefer common-sense to hysterics 
—a long way. I think she has common-sense ; and I don’t 
gee why she and Archie shouldn’t marry, and have a pleas- 
ant enough time of it ; and I supj.ose they w'ill qua? real 
until one ^r otlier gets tired of quarrelling, and refuses; and 
f tlicv only have a tidy little house .about Bruton Street or 


74 


YOLANDE. 


Conduit Street and a good cook, it will bo very convenient 
for us. Now I wish to goodness you’d clear out, and let me 
get dressed.” 

The dismissal was summary, but pretty Mrs. Graham 
was a good-natured woman, and with much equanimity she 
left the cabin, made her way along the saloon, and up the 
companion way to the outer air. About the first person she 
ran aofainst was her brother, and black thunder was on his 
face. 

“Where is Miss Winterbourne?” she said, inadver 
tently, and without reflecting that the question was odd. 

“On the hurricane-deck,” said he. “I dare say you 
will find half the olRcers of the ship round her.” 

There was something in his tone which caused his sister, 
with considerable sharpness, to ask him what he meant ; 
and then out came the story of his wrongs. Now Mrs. 
Graliam had not been too well pleased when her husband 
and everybody else sang the praises of Yolande to her ; but 
no sooner was the girl attacked in this way than she in- 
stantly, and with a good deal of warmth, flew to her de- 
fence. What right had he to suppose that Miss Winter- 
bourne ought to have singled him out as different from the 
others? Why should she not dance with whomsoever she 
pleased ? If the ship’s officers showed her some little ordi- 
nary courtesies, why should she not be civil in return ? 
What right of possession had he in her? What was he to 
her in any way whatever? 

“ Y oil said yourself she was a flirt,” her brother re- 
torted. 

“I?” she said. “I? I said nothing of the kind ! I 
said that the preposterous innocence that you discovered in 
her was more like the innocence of a confirmed flirt. But 
that only shows me that you know nothing at all about her. 
To imagine that she should have kept all her dances for 
you 

“I imagined nothing of the sort,” he answered, with 
equal vehemence. “ But I imagined that as we were trav- 
elling together as friends, even a small amount of friendli- 
ness might have been shown. But it is no matter.” 

“ You are quite right, it is no matter,” she interrupted. 
“ I have no doubt Miss Winterbourne will find plenty to 
understand her character a little better than you seem to 
do. You seem to think that you should have everything — 
that everything should be made smooth and pleasant for 


VOLANDE, 


75 


jrou. I suppose, when you marry, you will expect your 
wife to go through life with her ballroom dress on. It 
isn’t her womanly nature that you will be thinking of, but 
whether she dresses well enough to make other women 
envious.” 

All this was somewhat incoherent ; but there was a con- 
fused recollection in her brain of what she had been saying 
to her husband, and also perhaps a vague impression that 
these words were exculpating herself from certain possible 
charges. 

“You don’t consider whether a woman is fit to stand 
the test of suffering and trouble : do you think she is always 
going to be a pretty doll to sit at the head of your dinner 
table ? You think you know what Yolande’s nature is ; but 
you know nothing about it. You know that she has pretty 
eyes, perhaps ; and you get savage when she looks at any 
one else.” 

She turned quickly away ; Yolande had at that moment 
appeared at the top of the steps. And when she came down 
to the deck Mrs. Graham caught her with both hands, and 
kissed her, and still held her hands and regarded her most 
affectionately. 

“ Dear Yolande, how well you are looking !” she ex- 
claimed (meaning that her brother should hear, but he had 
walked away). “Dissipation does not harm you a bit. 
But indeed a dance on the deck of a ship is not like a dance 
in town ” 

Yolande glanced around ; there was no one by. 

“ Dear Mrs. Graham,” said she, “ I have a secret to ask 
you. Do you think your brother would do me a great,, 
favor ? Dare I ask him ? ” 

“ Why, yes, of course,” said the other, with some hesi- 
tation and a little surprise. “ Of course he would be de- 
lighted.” 

She could see that Yolande, at least, knew nothing of 
the fires of rage or jealousy she had kindled. 

“ I will tell you what it is, then. I wish my papa to 
think that I can manage — oh, everything ! when we go to 
the house in the Highlands. I wish that he may have no 
trouble. or delay; that everything should be quite re.ady 
and quite right. Always lie has said, ‘ Oh, you are a child ; 
why do you want a house? Why should you have vexa- 
tion ? ’ But, dear Mrs. Graham, I do not mind the trouble 
ftt all ; and I am filled with joy when I think of the time I 


76 


VOLANDE. 


am to go to tlie shops in Inverness ; and papa will see that 
I can remember everything that is wanted ; and he will 
have no bother at all ; and he will see that I can look after 
a house, and then he will not be so afraid to take one in 
London or the country, and to have a proper home as every 
one else has. And this is what I would ask of your 
brother, if he will be so very kind. He will be at Inverness 
before any of us, I suppose?’* 

“No doubt; but why should you look so far ahead, 
Yolande, and trouble yourself? ” 

“It is no trouble; it is a delight. You were speaking 
of the carriage we -should want, and the horses, to drive be- 
tween Allt-uani-Ba and the steamboat pier. Now all the 

other things that I have made a list of ” 

“ Already ? ” 

“ When you were so good as to tell me them, I put 
them down on a sheet of paper — it is safer ; but the car- 
riage : do you think I might ask -your brother to hire that 
for us for the three months ? Then when papa goes to In- 
verness there will be no bother or waiting ; everything in 
readiness ; the carriage and horses engaged ; the dogs sent 
on before , the cook at the lodge, with luncheon ready, or 
dinner, if it is late ; all the bedroom things nicely aired ; all 
right — everything right. Do you think I might ask 3Ir. 
Leslie ? Do you think he would be so kind ? ’’ 

“ Oh, I am sure he would be delighted, “ said Mrs. Gra- 
ham (with some little misgiving about Archie’s existing 
mood). “I fancy he has promised to get your papa a 
couple of ponies for the game panniers ; and he raigiit as 
well get you a dog-cart at the same time. I sliould say a 
four-wheeled dog-cart and one stout serviceable horse 
would be best for you ; with perhaps a spring-cart and an 
additional pony — to trot in with the game to the steamer. 
But Archie will tell you. It sounds so strange to talk 
about such things — here. Jim and I had a chat about the 
Highlands this very morning.” 

“ I will speak to your brother after breakfast, then.” 
But after breakfast, as it turned out, the Master of Lynn 
was nowhere to be found. Yolande wondered that he did 
not as usual come up to the hurricane-deck to play Bull,” 
or have a promenade with her ; but thought he was par- 
haps writing letters in the saloon, to be posted that night 
»t Suez. She did not like to ask: she only waited. She 
played “Bull” with her father, and got sadly beaten. She 


YOLANDE, 


77 


had a smart promenade with Colonel Graham, who told 
her some jungle stories ; but she was thinking of the High- 
lands all the time. She began to be impatient and set to 
work to devise letters, couched in such business phraseol- 
ogy as she knew, requesting a firm of livery-stable keepers 
to state their terms for the hire of a dog-cart and horse for 
three months, the wages of the groom included. 

There was no need to hurry. There had been some 
block in the canal, and the huge bulk of the ship was now 
lying idly in the midst of the Greater Bii'ter Lake. All 
around them was the wide plain of dazzling blue-green 
water, and beyond that the ruddy brown strip of the desert 
quivered in the furnace-like heat ; while overhead shone 
the pale clear sky, cloudless and breathless^ Yolande, as 
usual, wore neither hat nor bonnet ; but she was less recl^ 
less in venturing^ from under shelter of the awnings. And 
some of the old Anglo-Indians were hoping that the 
punkahwallahs would be set to work at dinner-time. 

The Master of Lynn had not shown up at breakfast ; 
Lut he made his appearance at lunch, and he greeted Yo- 
lande with a cold “ good-morning” and a still colder bow. 
Yolande, in truth, did not notice any change in his manner 
at fiyst, but by and by she could not fail to perceive that he 
addressed the whole of his conversation to Colonel Gra- 
ham, and that he had not a single word for her, though he 
was sitting right opposite to her. Well, she thought, per- 
haps this question as to whether they were to get through 
to Suez that evening was really very important. It did 
not much matter to her. She was more interested in In- 
verness than in Suez ; and among the most prized of her 
possessions was a long list of things necessary for a shoot- 
ing lodge, apart from tlie supplies which she was to send 
from the Army and Navy Stores. She felt she was no 
longer a schoolgirl, nor even a useless and idle wanderer. 
Her father should see what she could do. Was he aware 
that she knew that ordinary blacking was useless for shoot- 
ing boots, and that she had got “ dubbing ” down in her 
list ? 

“ Archie,” said Mrs. Graham to her brother the first 
time she got hold of him after lunch, “ you need not be 
rude to Miss Winterbourne.” 

“ I hope I have not been,” said he, somewhat stiffly. 

** You treated her as if she were an absolute stranger at 


78 


YOLANDE. 


lunch. Not that I suppose she cares. But for your own 
sake you niiglit sliow better manners.” 

“I tliink you mistake the situation,” said he, with ap- 
parent indifference. “ ‘ Do as you’re done by’ is a very 
good motto. It is for her to say whether we are to be 
friends, acquaintances, or strangers ; and if she chooses to 
treat you on the least- favored-nation scale, I suppose you’ve 
got to accept that. It is for her to choose. It is a free 
country.” 

“I think you are behaving abominably. I suppose you 
are jealous of those young ofHcers ; men who are not in 
the army always are; they know women like a man who 
can fight.” 

“Fight! Smoke cigarettes and play sixpenny Nap, 
you mean. That’s about all’the fighting they’ve ever done.” 

“Do you say that about Jim? ’’said the young wife, 
with a flash of indignation in her eyes. “ Why — ,’ 

“ I wasn’t aware that Graham was a candidate for Miss 
Winterbourne’s favors,” said he. 

“ Well, now,” she said, “you are making a fool of your^ 
self, all to no purpose. If you are jealous of them, won’t 
you be rid of the whole lot of them to-night, supposing we 
get to Suez ? And we shall be all by ourselves after t|iat ; 
and I am sure I expected we should make such a pleasant 
and friendly party.” 

“But I am quite willing’” said he. “If I meet Miss 
Winterbourne on terms of her own choosing, surely that is 
only leaving her the liberty she is entitled to. There is no 
quarrel, Polly. Don’t be aghast. If Miss Winterbourne 
wishes to be friendly, good and well ; if not, good and 
better. No bones will be broken.” 

“ I tell you this at least,” said his sister, as a parting 
warning or entreaty^ “that she is perfectly unconscious of 
having given you any offence. She has been anxious to 
speak to you all day, to ask you for a favor. She wants 
you to hire a dog-cart and a spring-cart for them when you 
go to Inverness. If she thought there was anything (the 
matter, would she ask a favor of you ? ” 

“Tliere is nothing the matter,” he rejoined, with perfect 
equanimity “ And I am quite willing to hire any number 
of dog-carts for her — when she asks me.” 

But oddly enough, whether it was that Yolande had de- 
tected something unusual in his manner, or whether that 
item in her list of preparations had for the moment escaped 


YOLANDE, 


79 


her memory, or whether it was that the ship had again start- 
ed, and everybody was eagerly looking forward to reaching 
Suez that night, nothing further was then said of the request 
that Yolande had intended to make. Indeed, she had but 
little opportunity of speaking to him that afternoon, for 
most of her time was taken up in finally getting ready for 
quitting the big steamer, and in helping Mrs. Graham to do 
likewise. When they did reach Suez it was just dinner- 
time, and that meal was ratlier hurried over ; for there were 
many good-bys to be said, and people could be got at more 
easily on deck. 

The clear, hot evening was sinking into the sudden dark- 
ness of the Egyptian night when the Grahams and Winter- 
bournes got into the railway carriage that was to take them 
along to the hotel ; and a whole crowd of passengers had 
come ashore to bid them a last good-by, amongst them 
notably the young Highland officers. 

“ Lucky beggars ! ” said Colonel Graham, rather ruefully. 
“Don’t you wish you were going out, Polly? Wouldn’t 
you like to be going out again ? ” 

“ Not I. Think of dear Baby, Jim ! ” 

“ By Jove ! ” said he, “ if Colin Mackenzie were hero 
with his pipes to play ‘The Barren Rocks of Aden,’ 1 be- 
lieve I’d go. I believe nothing could keep me.” 

And so they bade good-by to those boys; and Mrs. Gra- 
nam and Yolande found themselves overladen with fruit 
and flowers when the train started. They were tired after 
so much excitement, and very soon went to bed after reach- 
ing the hotel. 

Next morning they set out for Cairo ; the Master quite 
courteous, in a reserved kind of a way; his sister inwardly 
chafing; Yoland perhaps a trifle puzzled. Colonel Graham 
and Mr. Winterbourne, on the other hand, knowing nothing 
of these subtle matters, were wholly engrossed by the sights 
without. For though at first there was nothing but the 
vast monotony of the desert — a blazing stretch of sun- 
brown, with perhaps now and again a string of camels look- 
ing quite black on the far horizon-line — that in time gave 
way to the wide and fertile plains of the Nile Valley. 
Slowly enough the train made its way through these teem- 
ing plains, with all their strange features of Eastern life — ■ 
the mud-built villages among the palms ; herds of buffaloes 
coming down to wallow in the river; oxen trampling out 
the corn in the open ; camels slowly pacing along in Indian 


80 


YOLANDE. 


file, or here and there tethered to a tree ; strange birds flying 
over the interminable breadths of golden grain. And of 
course, wlien they reached Cairo, that wonderful city was 
still more bewildering to European eyes — tlie picturesque 
forms and brilJiant costumes ; the gayly caparisoned donkeys, 
ridden by veiled women, whose black eyes gleamed as they 
passed ; the bare-legged runner with his long wand clearing 
the way for his master on horseback ; the swarthy Arabs 
leading their slow-moving camels ; and side by side with 
the mosques and minarets and Moorish houses, the French- 
looking caf6s and shops, to say nothing of the French-look- 
ing public gardens, with the European servant-maids and 
children listening to the tinkling music from the latest 
Parisian comic opera. 

Then they got them to a large hotel, fronting these pub- 
lic gardens, the s])aciuus hall and corridors of which were 
gratefully cool, while outside there was such a mass of ver- 
dure — flowering shrubs and palms, wide-leaved bananas, and 
here and there a giant eucalyptus — as was exceedingly 
pleasant to eyes long accustomed to only the blue of the sea 
and the yellow-wliite of the deck. Moreover, they were in 
ample time for the table d’hote ; and every one, after the 
dust and heat, was glad to have a thorough change of rai- 
ment. 

When the guests assembled in the long and lofty dining- 
saloon (there were not many, for most of the spring tourists 
had already left, while many of the European residents in 
Cairo had gone away, anticipating political troubles ), it 
was clear that Mrs. Graham and her younger companion 
had taken the opportunity of donning a shore-toilette. Mrs. 
Graham’s costume was certainly striking : it was a deep 
crimson, of some richly brocaded stuff ; and she had some 
red flowers in her black hair. Yolande’s was simpler: the 
gown a muslin of white or nearly white ; and the only color 
she wore was a bit of light salmon-colored silk that came 
round her neck, and was fastened in a bow in front. She 
had nothing in her hair, but the light falling on it from 
above was sufficient, and even glorious, adornment. For 
jewelry she had two small ear-rings, each composed of mi- 
nute points of pale turquoise ; perhaps these only served to 
show more clearly the exquisite purity of her complexion, 
where the soft oval of the cheek met the ear. 

“ By heavens,” the Master of Lynn said to himself, the 


yOLANDE. 81 

moment he liad seen her come in at the wide door, “(hat 
girl is the most beautiful creature I have ever seen ! ” 

He was startled into renewed admiration of her. He 
could not keep his eyes away from her ; he found himself 
listening with a quick sympathy and approval when she 
spoke ; and as her face was all lit up with excitement and 
gladness because of the strange things she had seen, he fol- 
lowed her varying ex|)res8ions, and found himself being help- 
lessly drawn under a witchery which he could not, and did 
not strive much to withstand. She spoke mostly — and she 
was pleasantly excited and talkative this evening — to her 
father and to Mrs. Graham ; but sometimes, perhaps inad- 
vertently, she glanced his way as she spoke, and then he 
eagerly agreed with what she was saying, before he knew 
what it was. She, at least, had no covert quarrel with him 
or with any one else. Delight shone in her eyes. When 
she laughed it was like music. Even her father thought 
that she was looking unusually bright and happy ; and so 
that made him very contented too ; but his satisfaction took 
the form of humorous grumbling and he declared that he 
didn’t know what she was made of — that she should be 
making merry after the long day’s heat and dust, that had 
nearly killed every one else. 

After dinner tliey all flocked into the reading-room, 
anxious to have a look at the English papers — all except 
the Master of Lynn, who left the liotel, and was absent for 
a little time. When he returned he went into the read- 
ing-room, and (witli a certain timidity) wentup to Yolande. 

“ Miss Winterbourne,” said he, not very loudly, 
“ wouldn’t it be pleasanter for you to sit outside and see 
the people passing ? It is very interesting ; and they are 
playing music in the gardens. It is much cooler out of 
doors.” 

“Oh yes,” said Yolande, without the least hesitation ; 
and instantly she rose and walked out, just as she was, on 
to the terrace, he modestly attending her. He brought her 
a chair ; and she sat down by the railings to watch the 
picturesque crowd. She spoke to him just in her usual 
way. 

“ Miss Winterbourne,” said he at length, “ I have got 
you a little case of attar of roses ; will you take it ? When 
you get home, if you put it in your wardrobe, it will last a 
long time ; and it is sure to remind you of Cairo.” 

“ When I get home ? ” she repeated, rather sadly. “I 


82 


YOLAiVDE. 


have no home. I do not understand it. I do not under 
stiind why my papa should not have a home, as other people 
have.” 

“ Well, then, will you take it to Allt-nam-Ba? ” said he. 
“ That will be your home for awliiie.” 

At the mere mention of the place her face brightened 
up. 

“ Oh yes,” she said, in the most friendly way, “ that 
will indeed be a home for us for awhile. Oh, thank you ; 
it is very kind of you. I shall prize it very much.” 

“ And Polly was saying you wanted me to take some 
commissions for you to Inverness,” said he, abasing him- 
self to the uttermost. “ I should be awfully glad ; I should 
be delighted — ” 

“ 01), will you? ” she said ; and she rewarded him with 
an upward glance of gratitude that drove Cairo, and Inver- 
ness, and dog-carts, and everything else clean out of his 
head. “ And you are not anxious to read the news- 
papers ? ” 

“ No — not at all.” 

“ Then will you sit down and tell me a little more about 
Allt-nam-Ba? Ah, you do not know how I look forward 
to it. If it is only for three months, still it is a home, as 
you say, all to ourselves ; and my papa and I have never 
been together like that before. I am so glad to think of it 
and I am frightened too, in case I do anything wrong. But 
your sister has been very kind to me. And there is another 
thing, if I make mistakes at the beginning — well, I believe 
my papa does not know how to be angry with me.” 

“ Well, I should think not — I should think not indeed ! ” 
said he, as if it were quite an impossible thing for any- 
body to be angry with Yolande. 


CHAPTER X. 

IN THE NIGHT. 

He had at last discovered an easy way of gaining her 
favor. She was so anxious to prove to her father that she 
was a capable house-mistress that she was profoundly grate- 


YOLAiVDE. 


83 


ful for any hint that might lielp ; and she spared neitlier 
time nor trouble in acqiiii-ing tlie most minute information. 
Then all this had to be done in a more or less secret fasliion. 
She wished the arrangements at the shooting lodge to be 
something of a surprise. Her father, on getting up to 
■ Inverness-shire was to find everything in perfect order ; 
then he would see whether or not she was fit to manage a 
house. She had even decided (after serious consultation 
with the Master of Lynn) that when the gillies went up the 
hill with the shooting party, she would give them their 
lunch rather than the meaner alternative of a shilling apiece ; 
and when the Master suggested that oat-cake and cheese 
were quite sufficient for that, she said no — that as her 
father, she knew, would not have either whiskey or beer 
about the place, she would make it up to the men in giving 
them a good meal. 

This decision was arrived at, of all places in the world, 
in the gimcrack wooden building that Ismail had put up at 
the foot of the Great Pyramid for the reception of his 
guests. The Grahams and Winterbournes had, as a matter 
of course, driven out to see the Pyramids and the Sphinx ; 
but when there was a talk of their climbing to the top of 
the Great Pyramid, Yolande flatly refused to be hauled 
about by the Arabs ; so that Mrs. Graham (who had her 
little ambitions) and her husband and Mr. Winterbourne 
started by them.selves, leaving the Master of Lynn, who 
eagerly accepted the duty, to keej^ Yolande company. And 
BO these two were now sitting well content in this big, bare, 
cool apartment, the chief ornament of which was a series 
of pictures on the wall — landscapes, in fact, so large and 
wild and vehement in color that one momentarily expected 
to hear a sharp whistle, followed by carpenters rushing in 
to run them off the stage. 

“I suppose. Miss Winterbourne,” said he (it was an odd 
kind of conversation to take place at the foot of the Great 
Pyramid), “your fatlier would like to’ kill a few red deer 
while he is at Allt-nam-Ba ? ” 

“ Oh yes, I know he is looking forward to that.” 

“ Do you think,” said he, with a peculiar smile, “that it 
would be very wicked and monstrous if I were to sacrifice 
my father’s interests to your father’s interests ? I should 
think not myself. There are two fathers in the case ; what 
one loses the other gains.” 

“I do not understand you,” Yolande said. 


84 


YOLANDE, 


Well, this is the point. What deer may bo found in 
the Allt-nam-Ba gullies will most likely go in from our forest. 
Sometimes tliey cross from Sir John’s ; but I fancy our 
forest contributes most of them ; they like to nibble a little 
at the bushes for a change, and indeed in very wild 
weather they are sometimes driven down from the forest 
to get shelter among the trees. Oh, don’t you know ? ” he 
broke in, noticing some expression of her eyes. “ There 
are no trees in the deer forest — none at all — except per- 
haps a few stunted birches down in the corries. Well, you 
see, as the deer go in from our forest into your gullies, it is 
our interest that they should be driven out again, and it is 
your interest tliat they should stay. And I don’t think 
they will stay if there is not a glass of whiskey about the 
place. That was the hint I meant to give you Miss Winter- 
bourne.” 

“ But I don’t understand yet,” said Yoland. “ Whiskey ? ” 

“ All your father’s chances at the deer will depend on 
the goodwill of the shepherds. The fact is, we put some 
sheep on Allt-nam-Ba, mostly as a fence to the forest ; there 
is no pasturage to speak of ; but of course the coming and go- 
ing of the shepherds and the dogs drive the deer back. 
Now supposing — just listen to me betraying my father’s in- 
terests and my own? — supposing there is an occasional glass 
of whiskey about, and that the shepherds are on very friend- 
ly terms with you; then not only are they the first to know 
when a good stag has come about, but they might keep them- 
selves and their dogs down in the bothy until your father 
had gone out with his rifle. Now do you see?” 

“ Oh yes ! oh yes ! ” said Yolande, eagerly. “ It is very 
kind of you. But what am I to do ? My father would not 
have whiskey in the house — oh, never, never — not for all the 
deer in the country. Yet it is sad — it is provoking ! I 
should be so proud if he were to get some beautiful fine 
horns to be hung up in the hall when we take a house some 
day. It is very, very, very provoking.” 

“ There is another way, ” said he, quietly, “ as the cook- 
ery book says. You need not have whiskey in the house. 
You might order a gallon or two in Inverness and give it in 
aharge to Duncan, the keeper. He would have it in his 
bothy, and would know what to do with it.” 

Out came her note book in a second. Ttoo gallons of 
whiskey addressed to Mr. Duncan Macdonald., gamekeeper^ 
AUt-nan)^Ba, with note explaming. At the same moment 


YOLANDE 


85 


the dragoman entered the room to prer)are Inncli, and a 
glance ont of the window showed tliem the other membei*8 
of the party at tlie foot of tl'.at great blazing mass of ruddy 
yellow that rose away into the ]iale blue Egyptian sky. 

“Mind you don’t say I have had anything to do with it,” 
said he ( and he was quite pleased that tliis little secret ex- 
isted between tliem). “My father would think I was mad 
in giving you these hints. But yet I don’t think it is good 
])olicy to be so niggardly. If your father kills three or four 
stags this year, the forest will be none the worse, and Allt- 
iiam-Ba will let all the more easily another season. And I 
hope it is not the last time we shall have you as neiglfbors.” 

She did not answer the implied question ; for now the 
other members of the party entered the room, breathless 
and hot and fatigued, but ghid to be able to shut back at 
last the clamoring horde of Arabs who were still heard 
protesting and vociferating without. 

That same evening they left Cairo by the night train 
for Asyoot, where the dahabeeyah of the Governor of 
Merhadj was awaiting them ; and for their greater con- 
venience they took their dinner with them. That scram- 
bled meal in the railway carriage was something of an 
amusement, and in the midst of it all the young Master of 
Bynn would insist on Yolande’s having a little wine. She 
refused at first, merely as her ordinary habit was; but when 
he learned that she had never tasted wine at all, of any 
kind v.diatever, he begged of her still more urgently to 
liave the smallest possible quantity. 

“It will make you sleep. Miss Winterbourne, said he, 
“and you know how distressing a wakeful night journey 
is.” 

“ Oh, no ! ” she said, wdth a smile, “ not all. There is 
to be moonlight, and why should not one lie awake ? My 
papa wished me not to drink wine, and so I have not, and 
1 have never thought about it. The ladies at the Chateau 
scarcely took any ; they said it was not any better than 
water.” 

“ But fancy you never having tasted it at all ! ” he said, 
and then he turned to her father. “ Mr. Winterbournn, 
will you give Miss Yolande permission to take a very little 
wine — to taste it ? ” 

The re])ly of hei- father was singular : 

“I would sooner see her drink Prussic acid — then the 
end would be at once,” said he. 


YOLANDE. 


SQ 


Now this answer was so abrupt, and apparently so un- 
necessarily harsh, that the Master of Lynn, not knowing 
what blunder he had made, immediately strove to change 
the subject, and the most agreeable thing he could think of 
to mention to Yolande’s father was the slaying of stags. 

“ While you were going up the Great Pyramid this 
morning, Mr. Winterbourne,” said he, “ we were talking 
about what you were likely to do at Allt-nam-Ba, and I was 
telling your daughter 1 hoped you would get a stag or two.” 

“Yes? — oh, yes,” said Mr. Winterbourne, apparently 
recalling himself from some reverie by an effort of will. 
“ A stag ? I hope so. Oh, yes, I hoi^e so. W e will keep 
a sharp lookout.” 

“Miss Winterbourne,” said the younger man, with a 
significant glance at her which seemed to remind her that 
tliey had a secret in common, “ was surprised to hear that 
there were no trees in a deer forest. But her ignorance 
was very excusable. How could she know? It wasn’t 
half as bad as the talk of those fellows in Parliament and 
the newspapers who howl because the deer forests are not 
given over to sheep, or to cattle, or turned into small 
crofts. Goodness gracious ! I wonder if any one of them 
ever saw a deer forest? Miss Winterbourne, that will be 
something for you to see — the solitude and desolation of 
the forest — mile after mile of the same moorland and hill 
without a sound, or the sight of a living thing — ” 

“ But is not that their complaint — that so much land is 
taken away, and not for j^eople to live on?” said Yolande, 
who had stumbled on this subject somewhere in following 
her father’s Parliamentary career. 

“Yes,” said he, ironically. “I wonder what they’d 
find there to live on. They’d find granite boulders, and 
withered moss, and a hard grass that sheep won’t touch, 
and that cattle won’t toi]ch, and that even mountain hares 
would starve on. The deer is the only living animal that 
can make anything of it, and even he is fond of getting 
into the gullies to have a nibble at the birch-trees. I wish 
those Radical fellows knew something of what they were 
talking about before making all that fuss about the Game 
Laws. The Game Laws won’t hurt you if you choose to 
keep from thieving.” 

“But you are a Liberal, arc you not?” said Yolande 
with wide-open eyes. Of course she concluded that any 
one claiming the friendship of her father and herself must 


YOLANDE, 87 

needs be a Liberal. Travelling in the same party too : 
why — 

Well, it was fortunate for the Master that he found him- 
self absolved from replying ; for Mr. Winterbourne broke 
in, with a sardonic kind of smile on his face. 

“ That is a very good remark of yours, Mr. LesLe,” said 
he ; “ a very good remark indeed. I have something of 
the same belief myself, though I shock some of my friends 
by saying so. I am for having pretty stringent laws all 
round, and the best defence for them is this — that you need 
not break them unless you choose. It may be morally 
wrong to hang a man for stealing a sheep ; but all you 
have got to do is not to steal the sheep. Well, if I pay 
seven hundred and fifty pounds for a shooting, and you 
c|ine on my land and steal my birds, I don’t care what may 
happen to you. The laws may be a little severe ; but your 
best plan would have been to earn your living in a decent 
way, instead of becoming an idle, sneaking, lying, and 
thieving poaclier — ” 

“ Oh, certainly, certainly,” said the younger man, with 
great warmth. 

“ That is my belief, at all events,” said Mr. Winter- 
bourne, with the same curious sort of smile ; “ and it an- 
swers two ends : it enables me to approve my gamekeeper 
for the time being, when otherwise I might think he was 
just a little too zealous ; and also it serves to make some 
friends of mine in the House very wild ; and you know 
there is nothing so deplorable as lethargy.” 

“But you are a Liberal, Mr. Leslie, are you not?” re- 
peated Yolande. 

And here again he was saved — by the ready wit of his 
sister. 

“My dearest Yolande, what are you talking about ?” she 
said. “ What these two have been saying would make a 
Liberal or a Radical jump out of his five senses — or is it 
seven ? It it seven, Jim ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” her husband said, lazily. “Five are 
quite enough for a Radical.” 

“ I know I used to have a great sympathy with 
poachers,” continued pretty Mrs. Graliam. “ It always 
seemed to me romantic — I mean when you read about the 
poacher in poems — his love of sport, you know — ” 

“ His love of sport,” her husband growled, contemptu- 
ously. “A miserable sneaking fellow loafing about the 


YOLANDE. 


8 « 

public-house all day, and then stealing out at night with 
ids ferrets and his nets to snare rabbits for the market. A 
love of s])ort ! ” 

“ Oh, but I can remember,’ said she, stoutly, when I 
was a girl, there were other stoi'ies than that. That is the 
English poacher. I can remember when it was quite, well 
known that the Badenoch young fellows were corning into 
the forest for a deer, and it was winked at by everybody 
when they did not come more than twice or thrice in the 
year. And that was not for the market. Anybody could 
have a bit of venison wlio wanted ; and I have heard that 
there was a fine odor of cooking in the shepherds’ bothies 
just about that time.” 

“ That has nothing to do with tlie Game Laws,” her 
husband said curtly. “I doubt whether deer are protected 
by the Game Laws at all. I think it is only a question of 
trepass. But I quite agree with Mr. Winter-bourne ; if 
laws are too severe, your best plan is not to break thern.” 

“ Well, I was cured of my sympathy on one occasion,” 
said Mrs. Gr-abam, cheerfully (having warded off danger 
fr-orii her br-otber). “Do you remember, Jim ? You and I 
were driving down Glenstroy, and we came on some gypsies. 
They bad a tent by tbe roadside ; and you know, dear 
Yolande, I wasn’t an old married Avoman in those days, 
and grown suspicious; and I thought it would be nice to 
stop and sjjeak to the poor people, and give them some 
money to get proper food when they reached a village. 
Do you know what Jim said ? — ‘ Money for food ? Most 
likely they ar-e plucking a brace of my uncle’s black game.’ 
Well, they were not. We got down from tbe trap, and 
went into tbe little tent; and tbey weren’t plucking a brace 
of black game, but they were cooking two hen pheasants on 
a spit as comfortable as might be. I suppose a gypsy 
wouldn’t do much good as a deerstalker, though?” 

And while they thus sat and chatted about the far 
northern wilds (Yolande was deeply interested, and the 
Master of Lynn perceived that ; and he had himself an 
abundance of exjierience about deer) the sunset went, and 
j)resently, and almost suddenly, they found themselves in 
the intense blackness of the tropical night. When from 
time to time they looked out of the window they could see 
nothing at all of the world around, though Jupiter and 
Venus were shining clear and high in the western heavens, and 
Orion’s jewels were paling as they sank ; and away in th« 


VO LA AWE. 


89 


south, near the horizon, the solitary Sirius gleaned. But 
as the night went on (and they were still talking of Scot- 
land) a pale light — a sort of faint yellow smoke — appeared 
in the southeast, and then a sharp, keen glint of gold 
revealed the edge of the moon. The light grew and spread 
up into the sky, and now the world around them was no 
longer an indistinguishable mass of black; its various 
features became distinct as the soft radiance became fuller 
and fuller ; and by and by they could make out the walls 
of the slee^iing villages, with their strange shadows, and 
the tall palms that threw reflections down on the smooth 
and ghostly water. Can anything be more solemn than 
moonlight on a grove of palms — the weird darkness of 
them, the silence, the consciousness that all around lies the 
white, still desert ? Yolande’s fancies were no longer far 
away ; this silent, moonlit world out there was a strange 
thing. 

Then, one by one, the occupants of the railway carriage 
dropped off to sleep ; and Yolande slept too, turning her 
face into the window corner somewhat, and letting her 
hands sink placidly into her lap. He did not sleep ; how 
could he? He had some vague idea that he ought to be 
guardian over her ; and then — as he timidly regarded the 
perfect lines of her forehead and chin and throat, and the 
delicacy of the small ear, and the sweep of the soft lashes — • 
he wondered that this bea\itiful creature should have been 
so long in the world and he wasting the years in ignorance ; 
and then (for with youth there is little diffidence ; it is 
always, “I have chosen ; you are mine; you can not be any 
other than mine”) he thought of her as the mistress of Lynn 
Towers. In black velvet would she not look handsome, 
seated at the head of the dinner table ; or in a tall-backed 
chair by the fireplace, wiUi the red glow from the birch 
logs and the peat making glimmerings on her hair? He 
tliought of her driving down the Glen ; on the steamboat 
quay ; on board the steamboat ; in the streets of Inverness ; 
and he knew that nowhere could she have any rival. 

And then it occurred to him that what air was made by 
the motion of the train must be blowing in upon her face, 
and that the sand-blinds of the windows were not sufficient 
protection, and he thought he could rig up something that 
•would more effectually shield her. So, in the silence and 
temi-darkness, he stealthily got hold of a light shawl of his 
sister’s, and set to work to fasten one end to tlie top of the 


90 


YOLANDE. 


carriage door and the other to the netting for the hand- 
bags, in order to form some kind of screen. This ma- 
noeuvre took some time, for he was anxious not to waken any 
one, and as he was standing up, he had to balance himself 
carefully, for the railway carriage jolted considerably. But 
at last he got it fixed, and he was just moving the lower 
corner of the screen, so that it should not be too close to 
lier head, when, by some wild and fearful accident, the 
back of bis hand happened to touch her hair. It was the 
lightest of touches, but it was like an electric shock ; he 
])aused, breathless; lie was quite unnerved: he did not 
know whether to retreat or wait; it was as if something 
had stung him and benumbed his senses. And light as the 
tuoch was, it awoke her. Her eyes opened, and there was 
a sudden fear and bewildernment in them when she saw 
him standing over her ; but the next second she perceived 
what he had been doing for her, and kindness and thanks 
were instantly his reward. 

“ Oh, thank you! thank you!” she said, with smiling 
eyes. And he was glad to get back into his own corner, 
and to think over this that had liappened, and to wonder at 
tlie sudden fear that had paralyzed him. At all events, he 
had not offended her. 

The dawn arose in the east, the cold clear blue giving 
way to a mystic gray ; but still the moon shone palely on 
the palms and on the water and the silent plains. And 
still she slept ; and he wms wondering whether she was 
dreaming of the far north, and of the place that she longed 
to make a home of, if only for the briefest space. And 
what if this new day that was spreading up and up, and 
fighting the pallid moonlight, and bringing w'ith it color 
and life to brighten the awaking world — what if this new 
day were to bring with it a ne’^ courage, and he wmre to 
liint to her, or even to tell her plainly that this pathetic 
hope of hers was of easy accomplishment, and that, after 
their stay at Allt-nam-Ba, if it grieved her tothink of leav- 
ing the jdace that she had first thought to make a home of, 
there was another home there that would be })roud and 
glad to welcome her, not for two months or for three 
months, but for the length of her life? Why should not 
Mr. Winterbourne be free to follow out his political career ? 
He had gathered from Yolande that she considered herself 
a most luifortunate drag and incumbrance on her father; 


YOLANDE. 


01 


was not this a iiappy solution of all possible difficulties ? In 
black velvet, more especially, Yolande would look so band 
some in the dining-room at Lynn Towers. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

INTERVENTION. 

Mrs. Graham saw clearly before her the difficulties 
and danger of the task she had undertaken, and she ap- 
proached it with much circumspection and caution. Time 
and an abundance of opportunities were on her side, how- 
ever. Moreover, she and Yolande were like sisters now ; 
and when the men-folk were smoking together in some other 
part of the dahabeeyah, and talking about public affairs or 
their chances of having a little shooting in the neighborhood 
of Merhadj, these two were most likely seated in the cool 
shade of the Belvedere, having a quiet and confidential chat 
all to themselves, the while the slow-moving panorama of 
the Nile stole stealthily by. 

And gradually Mrs. Graham got Yolande to think a 
good deal about the future, which ordinarily the girl was 
loath to do. She had an admirable capacity for enjoy- 
ing the present moment, so long as the weather was fine, 
and her father not a long way off’. She had never experi- 
enced any trouble, and why should she look forward to any V 
She was in perfect health, and consequently her brain was 
free from morbid apprehensions. Sometimes, when Mrs. 
Graham was talking with the sadness begotten of worldly 
wisdom, the younger woman would laugh lightly, and ask 
what there was on earth to depress her — except, perhaps, 
the absence of dear Baby. In short, Yolande could not be 
made anxious about herself. She was content to take the 
present as it was, and the future as it might come. She 
was far more interested in watching the operations of this or 
that African kingfisher, when the big black and gray bird, 
after fluttering in the air for a while in the manner of a 
hawk, would swoop down and dive into the river, emerging 
with a small silver fish in its beak 

But if she could not easily be made anxious about her- 


92 * 


YOLANDE. 


she very easily indeed could be made anxions about 
her father; and Mrs. Graliam quickly discovered that any- 
thing suggested about him was instantly sufficient to arouse 
her interest and concern. She played upon that pipe skill- 
fully, and yet with not the faintest notion that her siren 
music was anything but of the sim])lest and honestest kind. 
Was it not for the welfare and happiness of every one con- 
cerned? Even Jim, with his faculty for looking at the 
sardonic side of things, had not a word to say against it. 
It would be a very good arrangement, that oracle had de- 
clared. 

“Do you know', dear,” said she, one morning, to Yo- 
lande, “ what Jim has just been saying ? — that he would not 
be surprised if, sooner or later, your father w'ere offered 
some place in the Government.” 

Yolande opened her eyes wu'de wdth surprise. But then 
she laughed, and shook her head. 

“ oil no. It is impossible. lie is not good friends with 
the Government. He has too many opinions to himself.” 

“ I don’t know',” said pretty Mrs. Graham, looking at 
one of the little French mirrors, and smoothing her curls. 
“I don’t know. You should hear Jim, anyw'ay. Of course 
I don’t mean a post wdth a seat in the Cabinet ; but office 
of some kind — an Under-Secretaryship or something of that 
sort. Jim says he heard just before he left towm that the 
Government w'ere going to try to conciliate the Radicals, 
and that some member below the gangway w'ould most 
likely be taken in. It would please some of the northern 
towns ; and Slagpool is an important place.” 

“ Oh, do you think it is possible ? ” cried the girl, with 
a new light in her eyes. “ My papa in the Ministry — and 
always in town ? ” 

“ That’s just it, Yolande dear,” said Mrs. Graham. “If 
your papa w'ere a member of the Government, in whatever 
place, he could not go gallivanting about like this — ” 

“ Oh, of course not, certainly not,” the girl said, eagerly 
“He would live in London. He w'ould have a house — s 
proper home. Do you think it is likely ? I never heard oi 
it before. But why should it not be ? — why should it not 
be, dear Mrs. Graham ? There are very few members in 
the House of Commons — why, scarcely any at all — who are 
returned by such a number of persons. Look at the ma- 
jority he always has ; does it not say that those people re 


YOLANDE. 98 

spect him, and believe lie is working for the good of the 
country ? Very well 5 why should it not be ?” 

“ I quite agree with you ; and Jim says it is' not at all 
unlikely. But you are talking about a liouse, Yolande 
dear ; well, it would scarcely be worth your papa’s while t« 
take a house merely for you ; through it is certainly of im- 
portance for a member of the Government to have a town 
house, and entertain, and so forth. You could scarcely 
manage that, you know, my dear ; you are rather young ; 
but if your papa were to marry again ?” 

“Yes?” said Yolande, without betraying any dismay. 

“ In that case I have been wondering what would be- 
come of you,” said the other, with her eyes cast down. 

“ Oh, that is all right,” said the girl, cheerfully. “That 
is quite right. Madame has directed me to that once or 
twice — often ; but not always with good sense, I consider. 
For it can not always happen that stepmother and ste]> 
daughter do not get’ on well — if there is one who is very 
anxious to please. And if my papa were to marry again, 
it is not that I should have less of his society ; I should have 
more ; if there was a home, and 1 allowed to remain, I should 
have more. And why should I have anything but kindness 
for his wife, who gives me a home? Oh, I assure you it is 
not I who would make any quarrel.” 

“ Oh no ; I dare say not — I dare say not, Yolande dear,” 
said the other, with a gracious smile. “You are not terri- 
bly quarrelsome. But it seldom answers. You would find 
yourself in the way. Sooner or later you would find your- 
self in the way.” 

“ Then 1 would go.” 

“ Where ? ” 

The girl made a little gesture by turning out the palms 
of her hands ever so slightly. 

“ I will tell you, my dear child, of one place where you 
•nuld go. If you came to us at Inverstroy — now or then, 
n- at any time — there is a home there waiting for you ; and 
Jim and I would just make a sister of you.” 

She spoke with feeling, and, indeed, with honesty; foi 
^lie was quite ready to have . welcomed Yolande to their 
northern home, wholly apart from the projects of the Master 
of Lynn. And Yolande for a second put her ha^d on her 
her friend’s hand. 

“ I know that,” she, “ and it is very kind of you to think 
of it ; and I believe it true — so much so that, if there was 


94 


YOLANDE, 


any need, I «^ould accept it at once. And it is a very nice 
thing to think of ; that there are friends who would take you 
into their own home if there were need. Oh, I assure you, 
it is pleasant to think of, even when there is no need at all.” 

“ Will you come and try it ? Will you come and see 
how you like it ? ” said pretty Mrs. Graham, with a coura- 
geous cheerfulness. “ Why not ? Your papa wants to be 
back in time for the Budget, or even before that. They 
say that it will be a late session — that if they get away for 
the twelfth they will be lucky. N^ow you know, dear Yo- 
lande, between ourselves, your father’s constituents are very 
forbearing. It is all very well for us to make a joke of it 
here ; but really — really — really — ” 

“ I understand you very well,” said Yolande, quickly ; 
“and you think he should remain in London till the twelfth, 
and always be at the House? Yes, yes; that is what I 
think too. Do you imagine it is I who take him away or 
voyage after voyage ? Ho! For me, I would rather hav4 
him always at the House. I would rather read his speeches 
in the newspaper than see any more cities, and cities, and 
cities.” 

“Very well; but what are you going to do, Yolande 
dear, between the time of our getting back and the 
twelfth ? ” 

“ Oh,” said Yolande, with her face brightening, “ that 
will be a busy time — no more of going away — and I shall 
be all the time in the hotel in Albemarle Street — and papa 
and I dining together every night, and having a chat before 
he goes to the House.” 

“ I am sure you are mistaken there,” said Mrs. Graham, 
promptly. “ Your father won’t let you stay all that time 
in town. He hates the very name of town. He is too fond 
of you, too careful of you, Yolande dear, and too proud of 
the roses in your cheeks, to let you shut yourself up in a 
town hotel.” 

“ But look at me ! ” the girl said, indignantly. “ Do I 
look unwell ? Am I sick-looking ? Why should not I live 
in a town hotel as well as others ? Are all unwell who live 
in London ? No ; it is folly to say that. And if anything 
were likely to make me unwell, it is not living in London ; 
but it is the fretting, when I am away from London, that I 
can be ol^ no use to my paj^a, and that he is living alone 
there. Think of his living alone in the hotel, and dining 
alone there — worse than that still, dining at the House of 


yOLANDE 


95 


Commons ! Wliy, it was only last night Colonel Graham 
and lie were speaking of the bad dinners tliere — the lieat 
and the crush and the badly cooked joints — yes, and I sit- 
ting there, and saying to myself, ‘Very well, and what is 
the use of having a daughter if she can not get for you a 
})retty dinner, with flowers on the table ? ’ ” 

“ I understand you so well ; when you speak it is like 
m}self thinking,” said Mrs. Graham, in her kindly way 
(and not at all imagining that she was anything of a hypo- 
crite, or talking for a purpose) ; “ but you may put it out 
of your head. Your father won’t let you stay in town. I 
know that.” 

“ Then I suppose it will be Oatlands Park,’ said Yo- 
lande, with a bit of a sigh. 

“ No. Why should it ? ” said her friend, briskly 
“ Come to Inverstroy. Go back with us. Then we will 
see about the cook and the housemaid in Inverness ; and 
Archie will get the dog-cart and horses for you ; and we 
might even go down to Allt-nam-Ba, and see that the keeper 
has ke])t on fires during the winter, and that the lodge is 
all right. And then we will all go on to Inverstroy — 
Archie as well ; and he will take you out salmon-fishing, 
for I shall have my own house to attend to for a while ; 
but we will make you just one of the family, and you will 
amuse yourself just as you think best ; and if we don’t pet 
you, and make you comfortable, and as happy as ever you 
were in your life, then my name isn’t Mary Graham. You 
will just see what a Highland welcome we will give you ! ” 
“ I know — I know,” said the girl. “ How can I thank 
you for such kindness? But then to think of my papa 

being all that time left by himself in London ” 

“ My dear Yolande, I must speak frankly to you, even 
if you fancy it cruel. Don’t you imagine your father would 
stand a little better with his constituents, and consequently 
be more at ease in his own mind, if he were left by himself 
a little more than at present? Don’t you think it might be 
prudent ? Don’t you think it would be better for every 
oiTe if he were left a little freer ? ” 

“Yes, yes — it is so — I can see it.” 

“ And if you were with us, he could give his whole time 
and attention to Parliament.” 

“ Yes, yes — though I had other wishes as well,” the girl 
gaid, W'ith her lips becoming a little tremulous. 

“It is a very awkward situation,” said Mrs. Graham, 


• YOLANDE. 


f)6 


with abundant cheerfulness ; “ but I see the natural way out 
of it. Perhaps you don’t, dear Yolande ; but I do. I know 
what will happen. You will iuive a Ijouse and liome ot 
your ov/n ; and your father will be very glad to see you 
happy and settled ; and he will give proper attention to 
Parliament while Parliament is sitting ; but wlien Pai iia- 
ment is not sitting then he will come to you for relaxation 
and amusement, and you must have a salmon-rod ready for 
him in the spring, and in the autumn nice luncheons to bo 
sent up the lull, where he will be with the others. Now 
isn’t that something to Ibok forward to?” 

“ Yes — but — a house of my own ? ” the girl said, bewil- 
dered. 

“Of course when you marry, my dear. That is the ob- 
vious solution of the whole dilliculty : it will put every one 
in a proper position.” 

She said neither yea nor nay; there was no affectation 
of maiden coyness ; no ]n*otest of any kind. But her eyes 
were distant and thoughtful ; not sad exactly, but seemingly 
filled with memories — probably memories of her own futile 
schemes and hopes. 

That afternoon they came in sight of some walls and a 
minarat or two, half hidden by groves of palms lying along 
the high banks of the river ; and these they were told be- 
longed to Merhadj ; but the Reis had had orders to moor 
the dehabeeyah by the shore at some short distance from 
the town, so that the English party should not be quartered 
among the confusion and squalor further along. The con- 
sequence of this was that very soon they found themselves 
the practical owners of a portion of Africa which seemed 
to be uninhabited ; for when the whole }>arty got ashore 
(with much excitement and eager interest), and waded across 
the thick sand, and then entered a far-stretching wood of 
acacia-trees, they could find no trace of human occupation; 
the only living things being an abundance of hoopoes — 
the beautiful red-headed and crested birds were so tame 
that one could have flung one’s cap at them — and wood- 
pigeons, the latter of a brilliant blue and gray and white. 
But by and by, as they wandered along — highly pleased to 
be on shore agjiin, and grateful fo the shelter of the trees — 
they met a slow procession of Arabs, with donkeys and 
camels, wending their way through the dry«rushes and hot 
sand ; and as the animals were heavily laden, they made 
QO doubt that tlie natives were carrying in farm produce to 


YOLANDE. 


97 


Bell at Merhadj. Then when they returned to the dalnv 
beeyah, they found a note from Ism at Effendi, written in 
excellent Englisli, saying that his father had just returned 
from the interior, and tliat they both would do theinseives 
the honor of ])aying a visit the following morning. 

Blit what to do till dinner-time — now tliat the dahabee- 
yah was no longer moving past the familiar features of the 
Nile? Ahmed came to the rescue. The chef wixs anxious 
to have some ])igeons : would the gentlemen go ashore and 
shoot some for him ? The gentlemen flatly refused to go 
and kill those half-tame creatures ; but they discovered that 
iVhmed could shoot a little ; so they lent him a gun, and 
offered to beat the wood for liim. It was an occupation, at 
least. And so the two women were left by themselves 
again, with nothing before them but the choosing of a cos- 
tume for dinner, and the donning of the same. 

It was an opportunity not to be missed ; and yet Mrs. 
Graham was terribly nervous. She had an uncomfortable 
suspicion all day that she had not been quite ingenuous in 
her conversation of the morning; and she was anxious to 
confess and clear her mind, and yet afraid of the effects of 
her confession. But Folande had spoken so reasonably and 
sensibly ; she seemed to recognize the situation ; why should 
she be startled ? 

For good or ill, she determined to plunge inmediOjS res^ 
and she adopted a gay air, though her fingers were rather 
shaky. She put her arm witliin Yolande’s arm. They 
were slowly walking up and down the upper deck, under 
the awning. They could just see the gentlemen of the 
party, along with Ahmed, disappearing into the grove of 
dark green acacias. 

‘‘ Yolande, I am a wicked women,” she said, suddenly. 
“ Hear my confession. I was not quite frank with you this 
morning, and I can’t rest till I have told you. The fact is, 
my dear child, when I spoke to you about the possibility of 
your marrying, I knew of the wishes of one or two others, 
and I ought to have told you. And now I wish to confess 
everything ; and you will forgive me if I say anything to 
offend or alarm you — ” 

“About my marrying ?” said the girl, looking rather 
frightened. “ Oh no ; I do not wish to know. I do not 
wish to know of anything tliat any one has said to you,” 

“ Then you have guessed ? ” 

The mere question was an intimation. The girl’s face 


98 


YOLANDE. 


flushed ; and she said, with an eager haste, and in obvious 
trouble : ' 

“ Wliy should we speak of any such thing ? Dear Mrs. 
Graham, why should I be afraid of the future? No ; I am 
not afraid.” 

“ But there are others to be considered — one, at least, 
whose hopes have been clear enough to the rest of us for 
some time back. Dearest Yolande, am I am speaking too 
much now ? ” 

She stood still, and took both of the girl’s hands in hers. 

“ Am I telling you too much ? Or am I telling you 
what you have guessed already? I hope I haven’t spoken 
too soon. If I have done anything indiscreet, don’t blame 
him! I could not talk to you just like sister to sister, and 
have this knowledge in the background, and be hiding it 
like a secret from you.” 

D Yolande drew lier hands away; she seemed scarcely 
able to And uttei-ance. 

“Oh no, Mrs. Graham, it is a mistake, it is all a mis- 
take ; you don’t mean what you say — ” 

“But indeed I do I ” the other said, eagerly. “ Dearest 
Yolande, how can I help wishing to have you for a sister? 
But if I have revealed the secret too soon, why, you must 
forget it altogether, and let Archie speak for himself. But 
you know I do wish it. I cjin’t help telling you. I have 
been thinking of what we might be to each other uf) there 
in the Highlands ; for I never had a sister, and my mother 
died when I was quite young, like yours, dear Yolande. 
You can’t tell liow pleased I was when Archie began to — to 
show you attention ; and I made sure you must have seen 
how anxious he was to please you — ” 

She ])aused for a second here, but there was no answer ; 
the girl was too bewildered. 

“ Why, Jim would be like a big brother to you ; you can’t 
tell how fond he is of you ; and your father approving 
too—’’ 

The girl started as it she had been struck, and her face 
became quite white. 

“Did you say — that my father wished it? ’’she said, 
slowly. 

“Oh yes, oh yes,” Mrs. Graham said. “What more 
natural ? What should he wish for more than to see you 
happily married ? I wouldn’t say that he would be more 
free to attend to i)ublic affairs ; I wouldn’t say that was 


YOLANDE. 


99 


his reason, tliough it might be one of several reasons; but 
I can very well understand his being pleased at the notion 
of seeing you married and comfortably settled among 
people who would make much of you, as I really and truly 
think we should. Now, dear Yolande, don’t say anything 
in haste. I am not asking you on behalf of Archie; I am 
telling you a secret to clear my own mind. Ah, and if you 
only knew how glad we should be to have you among us ! ” 

The girl’s eyes had slowly filled with tears, but she 
would not own it. She had courage. She looked her 
companion fair in the face, as if to say, “ Do you think I 
am crying ? I am not.” But when she smiled, it was a 
very strange sort of smile, and very near crying. 

“ Then if it is a secret, let it remain a secret, dear Mi*s. 
Graham,” said she, with a sort of cheerfulness. “ Perhaps 
it will always remain one, and no harm done. I did not 
know that my papa wished that ; I did not suspect it. No : 
how could I ? When we have talked of the years to come, 
that was not the arrangement that seemed best.” 

She paused for a while. 

“Now I remember what you were saying in the morn- 
ing. And you knew then also that my papa wished 
itr’ 

“ Oh yes, certainly — not that he has spoken directly to 
me — ” 

But Yolande was scarcely listening. Rapid pictures 
were passing before her — pictures that had been suggested 
by Mrs. Graham herself. And Yolande’s father, not her 
future husband, was the central figure of them. 

Then slie seemed to throw aside these speculations wdth 
an effort of will. 

“ Come,” she said, more cheerfully, “ is it not time to 
dress ? We will put away that secret ; it is just as if you 
had never spoken; it is all away in the air — vanished. 
And' you must not tell your brother that you have been 
talking to me ; for you know, dear Mrs. Graham, he has 
been very kind to me, and I would not give him pain — oh, 
not for anything — ” 

“My dear Yolande, if he thought there was a chance 
of your saying yes, he would be out of his senses with joy ! ” 
exclaimed the other. 

“ Oil, but that is not to be thought of ! said the girl, 
with quite a practical air. “ It is not to be thought of at all 
as yet. My papa has not said anything to me. And a 


100 


YOLANDE. 


little tliinking between US two — what is that? Nothing — 
air— it goes away; why should we remember it?’* 

Mrs. Graham could not understand this attitude at all. 
Yolande had said neither yes nor no ; she seemed neitlier 
elated or depressed ; and she certainly had not — as ‘most 
young ladies are supposed to do when they have decided 
upon a refusal — expressed any compassion for the unfor- 
tunate suitor. Moreover, at dinner, Mrs. Graham observed 
that more than once Yolande regarded the young Master 
of Lynn with a very attentive scrutiny. It was not a 
conscious, furtive scrutiny ; it was calm and unabashed. 
And Mrs. Graham also noticed that when her brother 
looked up to address Yolande, and met her eyes, those eyes 
were • not hastily withdrawn in maiden confusion, but 
rather answered his look with a pleased friendliness. She 
was certainly studying him, tlie sister thought. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

A SETTLEMENT. 

Next morning there was much hurrying to and fro on 
board the dahabeeyah in anticipation of the visit of the 
Governor ; so that Mrs. Graham had no chance of having 
an extended talk with her brother. Nevertheless, she 
managed to convey to him a few covert words of informa- 
tion and counsel. 

“ Archie,” said she, “ I have spoken to Yolande — I have 
linted something to her.” 

“ No ! ” he said, looking rather frightened. 

Oh, you need not be much alarmed,” she said, with a 
significant smile. “ Rather the other way. She seems 
quite to know how you have wdshed to be kind and atten- 
tive to her — quite sensible of it, in fact ; and when I hinted 
something — ” 

“She did not say ‘no’ outright?” he interrupted, 
eagei’ly; and there was a flush of gladness on his face. 

His sister glanced around. 

“ I thought there could be no harm if I told her that- 
Jim and I would like to have her for a sister,” she answered, 
demurely. 

“ And she did not say ‘ no ’ outright ? ” he repeated. 


YOLANDE. 


101 


“Well,” Mrs. Graham said, after a second, “I am not 
going to tell you anything more. It would not be fair. 
It is your business, not mine. I’m out of it now. I have 
intermeddled quite enough. But I don’t think she hates 
you. And she seems rather pleased to think of living in 
the Highlands, with her father having plenty of amusement 
there, you know ; and perhaps she might be brought to 
consider a permanent arrangement of that kind not so 
undesirable ; and — and — well, you’d better see for yourself. 
As I say, Jim and I will be very glad to have her for a 
sister ; and I can’t say more, can I ? ” 

She could not say more then, ;it all events, for at this 
moment Colonel Graham appeared on the upper deck with 
the intelligence that the Governor’s barge was just then 
coming down the river. Mr. Winterbourne and Yolande 
were instantly summoned from below; some further dis- 
position of chairs and divans was made ; some boxes of 
cigarettes were sent for ; and presently the sound of oars 
alongside announced the arrival of the chief notables of 
Merhadj. 

The Master of Lynn saw and heard little of what 
followed ; he was far too busy with the glad and bewilder- 
ing prospect that his sister’s obscure hints had placed before 
him. And again and again he glanced at Yolande, timidly, 

■ and yet with an increasing wonder. He began to ask him- 
self whether it was really true that his sister had spoken to 
her. The girl betrayed no consciousness, no embarrassment ; 
she had greeted him on that morning just as on other 
mornings ; at this moment she was regarding the arrival of 
those grave officials with an interest which seemed quite 
oblivious of his presence. As for him, he looked on 
impatiently. He wished it was all over. He wished to 
have some private speech with her, to have some inquiry 
of her eyes — surely her eyes would make some telltale 
confession ? And in a vague kind of way he grew to think 
that the Governor’s son, Ismat Effendi, who was acting as 
interpreter, and who spoke English excellently, addressed 
a little too much of the conversation to the two ladies. 
Moreover, it was all very well for him, on coming on board, 
to shake hands with M]*s. Graham, for he had known her 
in India, but why with Yolande ? ” 

The Governor — a corpulent and sallow-faced old gen- 
tleman Avho looked like a huge frog — and his companions 
gat in solemn state, while young Ismat, with much grace of 


102 


YOLANDE. 


manner and remarkably eloquent eyes, hoped that the visi- 
tors were comfortable on board the dahabeeyah, and so 
forth. He was a well-dressed young gentleman ; his black 
frock-coat, white waistcoat, and red tarboosh were all of 
the newest and smartest, and his singularly small feet 
were incased in boots of brilliant polish. The Master of 
Lynn considered him a coxcomb, and also a Frenchified 
semi-theatrical coxcomb. But the women-folk liked his 
])leasant manners and his speaking eyes ; and when he said 
that he had never been to England, but intended to go the 
next year, Mrs. Graham made him definitely promise that 
he would pay them a visit at Inverstroy. 

“And Miss Winterbourne,” said the young gentleman 
with the swarthy face and the brilliant white teeth, “ does 
she live in Scotland also ? ” 

“Well, no,” said Mrs. Graham, placidly; “but I hope 
you will find her there when you come. We want her to go 
back with us when we go back ; and if she likes her visit, 
perhaps she will come again. I hope you will find her with 
us.” 

“And I-also, madam, hope to have the felicity of the 
visit that you propose,” said he, “ if politics will permit 
me.” 

He directed an inquiring and rather curious glance at ^ 
Colonel Graham. 

“ You did not hear anything very remarkable in Cairo, 
sir ? ” 

“Well, nothing remarkable,” said the stout soldier. 

“ Lots of rumors. Alway plenty of that in politics. Mostly 
lies. At the Consulate they thought we were safe enough. 

The young man turned to his father, who was silently 
and solemnly sip])ing his coffee, apparently quite uninterested 
in what was going on, and spoke in Arabic to him for a 
second or two. The old gentleman appeared to grunt as- 
sent. 

“ My father says he will have much delight in sending 
two or three soldiers to accompany your party if you are 
making excursions into the interior. There is no danger, 
except that some bad men will try to rob when they can. 
Or if you will permit me — if you will have the grace to per- 
mit me — 1 will accompany you myself.” 

“ But to take up so much of your time — ” said pretty 
Mrs. Graham, with one of her most pleasant smiles. 

He waved his hand in a de])recatory fashion. 


YOLANDE. 


lOS 

“ It will be too cliarming for me. Perhaps your drago- 
man does not know the district as well as I. Do you })er- 
mitme? Shall I come to-morrow, with everything pre- 
pared ? ” 

“ Look here, Mr. Ismat,” said Colonel Graham, “ you’d 
better come along and dine with us this evening ; then we can 
talk it over. In the meantime we can’t keep your father 
and the other gentlemen waiting while we discuss our ram- 
bles. Will you please tell his Excellency once more how 
much obliged we are, and honored by his visit, and that we 
will do ourselves the pleasure of coming to see him at Mcr- 
hadj to-inoriT)w if that will suit his Excellency’s conveni- 
ence ? ” 

Tliis was the final arrangement — that young Ismat 
Elfendi was to come along to dinner in the evening — a ])ros- 
pect which seemed to please him highly. Very soon after 
the grave company was seated in the stern of the barge, 
and the big oars were once more at work. Tiie dahabeeyali 
returned to its normal state of silence ; the little party of 
Europeans were left again to their own society; and the 
Master of Lynn, a little anxious and excited, and almost 
fearing to meet Yolande’s eyes, and yet drawn toward her 
neigliborhood by a secret spell, declined to go ashore with 
the other two gentlemen, and remained with his sister and 
Yolande in the Belvedere, in the cool shade of the canvas 
awning. 

No, she betrayed not the slightest embarrassment at his 
sitting thus quite near her ; it was he who was nervous and 
awkward in Ids speech. She was engaged in some delicate 
needlework ; from time to time she spread it out on her lap 
to regard it, and all the time she was chatting freely with 
Mrs. Graham about the recent visitors and their grave 
demeanor, their almost European costume, their wonder- 
fully small feet, and so forth. 

“Why do you not go ashore? ’’she said, turning with 
frank eyes to the Master of Lynn. “ It is so interesting to 
see the strange birds, the strange plants.” 

“ It is cooler on the river,” said he. 

He was wondering whether his sister would get up and 
go away and leave them together, and he was half afraid 
she would and half afraid she would not. But at all events 
he was now resolved that un the first opporr unity he would 
speak to Yolande himself. He w )uld not trust to any go* 
between. Was it not enough that she had had some in- 


104 


YOLANDE, 


tiniation made to Iiei’ of his wishes and hopes, and yet 
showed no signs of fear at his approach ? 

The midday went by, and he found no chance of ad- 
dressing her. His sister and she sat together, and sewed and 
chatted, or stopped to watch some passing boat, and listen 
to the boatmen singing a long and melancholy chorus to the 
clanking of the oars. At lunch-time Mr. Winterbourne and 
Colonel Graham turned uj). Then in the afternoon the 
Avhole of them got into a boat, and were rowed away to a 
long and flat and sandy island on the other side of the Nile, 
wliicli they explored in a leisurely way ; and then back 
again to tlie dahabeeyah for a draught of cold tea in the 
Avelcome shade of the awning. 

It was not until near the end of the day that the long- - 
looked-for opportunity arrived : indeed, nearly every one 
had gone below to get ready for dinner; but Yolande had 
lingered above to watch the coming over of the twilight. It 
was a strange enougli siglit in its way. For after the yel- 
low color had died out of the bank of bearded corn above 
the river’s edge, and while the stri]) of acacia-trees over that 
again had gi-own solemn and dark against the clear, pallid, 
blue-gray sky of the south, far away in the northwestern 
heavens there still lingered a glow of warmer light, and a 
few clouds high up had caught a saffron tinge from the 
sinking sun. It seemed as if they here were shut in with 
the dark, while far away in the north, over the Surrey lanes, 
and up among the Westmoreland waters, and out amid the 
distant Hebrideen isles, the summer evening was still fair 
and shining. It led one to dream of home. The imagin- 
ation took wings. It was pleasant to think of those beauti- 
ful and glowing scenes, here where the gloom of the silent 
desert was gathering all around. 

She was standing by the rail of the deck ; and when the 
others had gone he quietly went over to her, and began 
talking to her — about the Highlands mostly, and of the 
long clear twilights there, and how he hoped she Avould 
accept his sister’s invitation to go back home wdth them 
Avhen they returned to England. And when she said some- 
thing very pretty about the kindness of all of them to her, 
be spoke a little more warmly, and asked if there was any 
wonder. People got to know one another intimately 
through a constant companionship like this, and got to 
know and admire and love beautiful qualities of disposition 
and mind. And then he told her it would not be honest ii 


YOLANDE 


105 


he did not confess to her that he Avas aware tliat liis sister 
liad spoken to her — it was best to be frank; and he knew 
she was so kind she Avould not be angry if tliere had been 
any indiscretion ; and he begged for her forgiveness if slie 
liad been in any Avay offended. He spoke in a very frank 
and manly way; and she let him speak, for she Avas quite 
incapable of saying anything. Her fingers Avere Avorking 
nervously Avith a small pocket-book she lield, and she had 
turned partly aAvay, dreading to lift her eyes, and yet unable 
to go until she had answered him sornelioAV. Then she 
managed to say, rathei’ hurriedly and breathlessly, — 

“Oh no, I am not offended. Wliy, it is — a great honor 
— I — I knew it was your sister’s kindness and friendsliip 
that made her speak to me. Please let me go aAvay now — ” 

He liad put liis hand on her arm unwittingly. 

“But may 1 hope, Yolaiide? May I hope?” he said 
and he stooped down to listen for the faintest A\mrd. “I 
don’t Avant you to jiledge yourself altogether now. Give 
me time. May I try to Avin you ? l)o you think sometimes 
— some time of your OAvn choosing, as far ahead as you may 
Avish — you will consent? May I hope for it? May I look 
forward to it — some day. 

“ Oh, but I cannot tell you — I cannot tell you noAV,” 
she said, in the same breathless way. “ I am sorry if I have 
given any pain — any anxiety — but — some other time I will 
try to talk to you — or my pajia Avill tell you — but not now. 
You liave always been so kind to me that I ask it from 
you—” 

She stole aAvay in the gathering darkness, her head bent 
doAvn : she had not once turned her eyes to his. And he 
remained there for a time, scarcely knowing what he had 
said or Avhat she had answered, but vaguely and hapjiily 
conscious that she had not, at all events, refused him. 
Was it not much ? He Avas harassed by all kinds of doubts, 
surmises, hesitations ; but surely prevailing over these Avas 
a buoyant hope, a touch of triumpli even. He Avould fain 
haAm gone aAvay for a long stroll in the dusk to haA'e 
reasoned out his hopes and guesses with himself ; but here 
was dinner-time approaching, and young Ismat was coming; 
and he — that is, the Master of Lynn — began to have the 
consciousness that Yolande in a measure belonged to him, 
and that he must be there. He went doAvn the steps witi» 
a light and a proud heart. Yolande was his, he alm(«sl feli 


106 


YOLAiVDE. 


assured. How should slie regard him wlien next the^F 
met ? 

And indeed at dinner there was no longer any of that 
happy serenity of manner on her pai-t that had puzzled him 
before. Her self-consciousness and embarrassment were so 
great as to be almost painful to witness. She never lifted 
her eyes ; she ate and drank next to nothing; when she 
pretended to be listening to Ismat Effendi’s descriptions of 
llie troubles in the Soudan, any one who knew must have 
seen that she was a quite perfunctory listener, and probably 
understood but little of what was being said. But tlien 
no one knew that he had spoken but himself, and he strove 
to convince her that he was not regarding her by entering 
eagerly into this conversation about the False Prophet; 
and though now and again her trouble and confusion 
perplexed him — along with the recollection that she had 
been so anxious to say nothing definite — still, on the whole, 
triumph and rejoicing w'ere in his heart. And how beautiful 
she looked, even with the pensive face cast down ! Ho 
wonder young Ismat had admired her that morning; the 
very Englishiiess of her appearance must have struck him 
— the tall stature, the fine complexion, the ruddy golden 
hair, and the clear, proud, calm, self-confident look of the 
maidenly eyes. This was a bride fit for a home-coming at 
Lynn Towers ! 

But, alas! Yolande’s self-confidence seemed to have 
strangely forsaken her that evening. When they w^ere all 
up on deck, taking their coffee in the red glow shed by the 
lanterns, she got hold of her father, and drew him aside 
into the darkness. 

“ What is it, Yolande?” said he, in surprise. 

She took hold of his hand ; both hers were trembling. 

“ I have something to tell you, papa — something 
serious.” 

Then he knew, and for a moment his heart sank ; but he 
maintained a gay demeanor. Had he not reasoned the 
whole matter out with himself? He had foreseen this 
crisis ; he had nerved, himself by anticipation. 

Oh, I know' — I know already, Yolande,” said he, very 
cheerfully. “ Do you think I can’t spy secrets ? And of 
course you come to me, with your hands trembling, and 
jrou think you have something dreadful to confess, wdiereaa 
it is nothing but the most ordinary and commonplace thing 
in the world. You need not make any confession. Young 


YOLANDE. 


107 


Leslie has spoken to me. Quite right — very right ; I like 
frankness. I consider him a very fine young fellow. Now 
what have you got to say? Only I won’t listen if you are 
going to make a fuss about it, and destroy my nervous system, 
for I tell you it is the simplest and most ordinary affair in 
the world.” 

“ Then you know everything — you approve of it, papa 
— ^it is your wish ? ” she said, bravely. 

My wish ? ” he said. “ What has my wish to do with 
it, you stupid creature ! ” But then he added, more gently : 
“ Of course you know Yolande, I should like to see you mar- 
ij^ed and settled. Yes, I should like to see that; I should 
like to see you in a fixed home, and not liable to all the 
changes and chances of the life that you and I have been 
living. It would be a great relief to my mind. And then 
it is natural and right. It is not for a young girl to be a 
rolling stone like that ; and, besides, it couldn’t last : that 
idea about our always going dn travelling wouldn’t answer. 
So whenever you think of marrying, whenever you think 
you will be happy in choosing a husband— just now, to- 
morrow, or any time — don’t come to me with a breathless 
voice, and with trembling hands, as if you had done some 
wrong, or as if I was going to object, for to see you happy 
would be happiness enough for me ; and as for our society 
together, well, you know, I could pay the people of Slag- 
pool a little more attention, and have some more occupa- 
tion that way ; and then you, instead of having an old and 
frail and feeble person like me to take care of you, you 
would have one whose years would make him a fitter com- 
panion for you, as is quite right and proper and natural. 
And now do you understand ? ” 

“ Oh yes, I think so, papa !” said she, quite brightly ; 
and she regarded him with grateful and loAung eyes. “ And 
you would have ever so much more time for Parliament, 
would you not ? ” 

“ Assuredly.” 

“And you would come to see me sometimes; and gc 
shooting and fishing ; and take a real holiday — not in towns 
and hotels ? ” 

“ Oh, don’t be afraid. I will bother the life out of you. 
And there are alw ays fishings and shootings to be got some* 
how,” 

“ And yo 'i would be quite happy then ? ” 

“ If you were, I should be,” said he ; and really this 


108 


YOLANDE. 


prospect pleased him so much that his cheerfulness now 
was scarcely forced. “ Always on this distinct and clear 
understanding,” he added, that, when we are coming 
back from the shooting, you will come out to meet us and 
walk back with us the last half-mile.” 

“ I should be dressing for dinner, papa,” she said, “ and 
just worrying my head off to think what would please 
you.” 

“You will be dressing to please your husband, you 
foolish creature, not me.” 

“ He won’t care as much as you, papa.” Then she 
added, after a second : “ I should get the London news- 
papers, yes ? Quite easily ? Do you know, papa, what 
Colonel Graham believes? — that they are going to take one 
of the extreme Liberals into the Ministry, to please the 
northern towns,” 

“Lilt what has that got to do with you, child ? ” said 
he, with a laugh. “ Very likely they may. But you didn’t 
bring me over here to talk politics? ” 

“ But even if you were in the Government, papa, you 
would have your holiday-time all the sane,” she said, 
thoughtfully. 

“1 a member of the Government!” said he. “You 
may as well expect to hear of me being sent to arrest the 
False Prophet in the Soudan. Come away, then, Yolande : 
your secret is not a secret ; so you need not trouble about 
it ; and now, that I have expounded my views on the 
situation, you may as well go and call to Ahmed that I 
want another cup of coffee.” 

And then he hesitated. 

“ You have not said yes or no yet, Yolande ?” 

“Oh no; how could I, until I knew what you might 
tliink ? ” said she, and she regarded him now with frank 
and unclouded eyes. “How could I? It might not have 
been agreeable to your wishes. But I was told that you 
would approve. At first — well, it is a sudden thing to 
give up visions you have formed : but when you see it is 
not practicable and reasonable, what is it but a small strug- 
gle ? Ho ; other plans present themselves. Oh yes, I have 
much to think of now, that looks very pleasant to an tick 
pate. Very much to look forward to — to hope for.” 

He patted her lightly on the shoulder. 

“ And if you make half as good a wife, Yolande, as you 
have been a daughter, you will do pretty well.” 


YOLAhWE. 


109 


They went back to their friends, their absence scarcely 
having been noticed, for Ismat Effendi was a fluent and 
interesting talker. And whether Mr. Winteibourne had 
been playing a part or not in his interview with Yolande, 
that cheerfulness of his soon left him. He sat somewhat 
apart, and silent ; his eyes were fixed on the deck ; he was 
not listening. Yolande herself brought him the coffee; 
and she put her hand on his shoulder, and stood by him ; 
then he brightened up somewhat. But he was thoughtful 
and distraught for the whole of the evening, except when 
he happened to be spoken to by Yolande and then he would 
summon up some of his customary humor, and petulantly 
complain about her un-Englishidioms. 

And she ? Her anxiety and nervousness seemed to have 
vanished. It is true, she rather avoided the Master of 
Lynn, and rarely ventured to look in his direction, but she 
was in good spirits, cheerful, practical, self-possessed ; and 
when Ismat Effendi, on going away, apologized to her for 
having talked tedious politics all the evening, she said, with 
a charming smile, — 

“ISTo, not at all. How can politics be tedious? Ah! 
but we will have our revenge, perhaps, in Scotland. Mrs. 
Graham says that in their house it is nothing but deer that 
is talked of all the evening. That will not interest you ? ” 

“ I shall rejoice to be allowed to try,” said the polite 
young Egyptian ; and then he shook hands with her. and 
bowed very low, and left. 

During the rest of the evening the Master of Lynn, see- 
ing that Yolande seemed no longer in any trouble, kept 
near her, with some vague hope that she would herself 
speak, or that he might have some chance of re-opening the 
subject that engrossed his mind. And indeed, when 
the chance arrived, and he timidly asked her if she had not 
a word of hope for him, she spoke very frankly, though 
with some little nervousness, no doubt. She made a little 
apology, in very pretty and stammering phrases, for not 
having been able to give him an answer ; but since then, 
she said, she had spoken to her father, without whose ap- 
proval she could not have decided. 

“ Then you consent, Yolande; you will be my wife?’ 
he said, in a low and eager voice, upsetting in his haste all 
the continuity of these hesitating sentences. 

“ But is it wise ? ” said she, still with her eyes cast dowDa 
“ Perhaps you will regret — ” 


no 


YDLANDR. 


He took her liand in his, and held it tight. 

“ This has been a lucky voyage for me,” said he ; and 
that was all that he had a chance of saying just then ; but 
it was enough. 

Colonel Graham heard the news that same evening. lie 
was a man of solid and fixed ideas. 

“ A very good thing too,” said he to his wife. “ A very 
good thing. Now they’ll take the sheep off Allt-nam-Ba, 
and make Corrievreak the sanctuary. Nothing could have 
happened better.” 


CHAPTER Xy. 

NEW PLANS. 

Next morning, and long before any one on board the 
dahabeeyah was awake, Mr. Winterbourne was seated in 
the quiet little saloon writing the following letter : 

“ Near Merhadjh, on the Nile, May 13. 

“ Dear Siiortlands : — 

I have news for you. You will be glad to learn that 
Yolande is engaged to be married — I think with every pros- 
]^ect of happiness; and you will also be glad to know that 
I heartily approve, and that so far from viewing the com- 
ing change with dread, I rather welcome it, and look on it 
as the final removal of one of the gi-eat anxieties of my life. 
Sometimes I wonder at myself, though. Yolande and I 
have been so much to each other. And I dare say I shall 
feel her absence for a while. But what does it matter? 
My life has been broken and wasted ; what remains of it is 
of little consequence if her life be made the fuller and hap- 
pier and more secured ; and I think there is every chance of 
that. After all, this definite separation will be better than 
a series of small separations, haunted by continual fears. 
She will be removed from all the possibilities you know of. 
As for me, what does it matter, as I say ? And so I have 
come to regard the handing over of my Yolande to some- 
body else as not such a hard matter after all; nay, I am 
looking forward to it with a kind of satisfaction. When 2 
can see her securely married and happily settled in a homej 


YOLANDE. 


Ill 


that will be enough for me ; and maybe I may have a chance 
from time to time of regarding the pride and pleasure of 
the young house-mistress. 

“ The accepted suitor is Mrs. Graham’s brother (I think 
you know we came away with Colonel Graham, of Inver- 
stroy, and his wife), and the only son of Lord Lynn. I 
have had a good opportunity of studying his character; and 
you may imagine that, when I saw a prospect of this hap- 
pening, I regarded him very closely and jealously. Well, 
I must say that his qualities bore the scrutiny well. I think 
he is an honest and honorable young fellow, of fair abilities, 
very pleasant and courteous in manner (what I especially 
like ill him is the consideration and respect he pays to 
women, which seems to be unusual nowadays; he doesn’t 
sttind and stare at them with a toothpick in his mouth) ; I 
hear he is one af the best deer stalkers in the Highlands, 
and that speaks well for his hardihood and his temperance ; 
he is not brilliant, but he is good-natured, which is of more 
importance in the long run ; he is cheerful and high-spirited, 
which naturally follows from his excellent constitution — • 
deer-stalking does not tend to conjestion of the liver and 
bilious headache : he is good-looking, but not vain ; and 
he is scrupulously exact in money matters. Indeed, he is 
almost too exact, if criticism were to be so minute, for it 
looks just a little bit odd, when we are playing cards for 
counters at threepence a dozen, to see the heir of the house 
of Lynn so very particular in claiming his due of .twopence- 
halfpenny. But this little weakness is forgivable : to be 
})rudent and economical is a very good failing in a young 
man ; and then you must remember his training. The 
Leslies have been poor for several generations ; but they 
have steadily applied themselves to the retrieving of their 
condition and the bettering of the estate, and it is only by 
the exercise of severe economy that they now stand in so 
good a position. So, doubtless, this young fellow has ac- 
quired the habit of being particular about trifles, and I 
don’t object ; from my point of view it is rather praise- 
worthy ; Yolande’s fortune — and she shall have the bulk of 
what I have — will be placed in good and careful hands. 

“ So now all this is well and happily settled, and as 
every one bids fair to be content, you will ask what more 
we have to do than to look forward to the wedding, and 
the slippers, and the handfuls of rice. Well, it is the old 
story, and you as an old friend, will understand. That is 


112 


irOLANDE, 


why I write to you, after a wakeful enough night — for the 
sake of unburdening myself, even though I can’t get a word 
of your sturdy counsel at this great distance. As I say, it 
is the old story. For the moment you delude yourself into 
the belief that the time of peril and anxiety is past; every- 
thing is safe now for the future; with Yolande’s life made 
secure and happy, what matters what happens elsewhere? 
And the next moment new anxieties jwesent themselves ; 
the old dread returns ; doubts whether you have acted for 
the best, and fears about this future that seemed so bright. 
There is one point about these Leslies that I forgot to men- 
tion : they are ail of them apparently — and young Leslie 
especially — very proud of the family name, and jealous of 
the family honor. I do not wonder at it. They have every 
right to be, and it is rather a praiseworthy quality. But now 
you will understand, old friend, the perplexity I am in — 
afraid to make any revelation that might disturb the settle- 
ment which seems so fortunate a one, and yet afraid to 
transfer to the future all those risks and anxieties that 
liave made the past so bitter and so terrible to me. I do 
not know what to do. Perhaps I should have stated the 
whole matter plainly to the young man when he came and 
asked permission to propose to Yolande ; but then I was 
thinking, not of that at all, but only of her h.appiness. It 
seemed so easy and safe a way out of all that old trouble. 
And why should he have been burdened with a secret which 
he dared not reveal to her? I thought of Yolande being 
taken away to that Highland home, living content and hap- 
py all through her life, and it did not occur to me to imperil 
that prospect by any disclosure of what could concern 
neither her nor him. But now I have begun to torture my- 
self in the old way again, and in spite of myself conjure up 
all sorts of ghastly anticipations. The fit does not last long ; 
if you were here, with your firm way of looking at things, 
possibly I could drive away these imaginings altogether ; 
but you will understand me when I say that I could wish to 
see Yolande married to-morrow, and cariied away to the 
Highlands. Then I could meet my own troubles well 
enough.” 

He was startled by the rustling of a dress ; he looked up, 
and there was Yolande herself, regarding him with a bright 
and happy, and smiling face, in which there was a trifle of 
surprise, and also perhaps a faint flush of self-consciousness ; 
for it was but the previous evening that she had told him of 


YOLANDE. 


113 


the engagement. But surely one glance of that face, so 
young and clieerful and confident, was enougli to dispel 
those dark foi-ebodings. The page of life lying open there 
was not the one on which -to write down prognostications 
of trouble and sorrow. TTis eyes lit up with pleasure ; the 
glooms of the night were suddenly forgotten. 

“ W riting ? Already ? ” she said, as she went forward and 
kissed him. 

“You are looking very well this morning, Yolande,” lie 
said, regarding her. “ The silence of the boat does not keep 
you from sleeping, apparently, as it sometimes does with 
older folk. But where is your snood? — the color suits your 
hair,” 

“ Oh, I am not in the Highlands yet, ” she said, lightly. 
“ Do you know the song Mrs. Graham sings? — 

‘ It’s I would give my silken snood 
To see the gallant Graliams come hame,’ 

that was in the days of their banishment.” 

“ But what have you to do with the home-coming of the 
Grahams, Yolande?” her father said, to tease her. “You 
will be a Leslie, not a Graham.” 

She changed the topic quickly. 

“To wlioiii are you writing?” 

“ To Jolin Shortlands.” 

“May I see ?” 

She would have taken up the letter had he not hastily 
interposed. 

“Yo.” 

“Ah ! it is about business. Very well. But may I put 
in a postscript ?” 

“ What do you want to write-to Mr. Shorthands about ?” 
her father said,. in amazement. 

“Perhaps it will be better for you to write, then. I was 
going to ask him to visit us at Allt-narn-Ba.” 

“ Well, now, Yolande, that is a most excellent idea ! ” he 
exclaimed. “You are really becoming quite a sensible and 
practical person. W^e shall want another gun. John Short- 
lands is just the man.” 

“We can give him, ” said she, sedately, “the bedroom 
over the dining-room ; that will be furthest away from the 
noise of the kennels.” 

Then he stared at her. 


114 


YOLANDE. 


“ What on iarth do you know about the bedroom over 
the diriing-room, or the kennels either?” 

“ Mr. Leslie,” said she, with a momentary flush, “ gave 
me a plan of the house — there it is, papa. Oh, you shall 
have no trouble ; it is all quite easily arranged 

She took out a piece of paper from her note-book, un- 
folded it, and put it before him. 

“ There,” said she, with a practical air, “ is a very good 
room, that looks down the glen — that is for you. That one 
is for a visitor — yes, Mr. Shortlands, if he will come — so 
that he shall not be disturbed by the dogs. That one for 
me — ” 

“ But why should you be disturbed by the dogs?” 

“ Me ? Oh, no ! I shall be used to it. Besides,” she 
said, with a laugh, “ there is nothing that will disturb me — • 
no, not the cockatoo at the Chateau that Madame did not 
keep more than three days.” 

“ But look here, Yolande,” said he, gravely, “ I am afraid 
you are going to attempt too much. Why should you? 
Wliy should you bother ? I can pay to get somebody to do all 
that. It’s all very well for Mrs. Graham, who has all her ser- 
vants about her, trained to help her. And she has been at the 
tliiiig for years. But really, Yolande, you are taking too 
great a responsibility. And why should you worry your- 
self when I can pay to get it done ? I dare say there are 
people who will provision a house as you provision a yacht, 
and take back the surplus stores. I don’t know ; I suppose 
so. In any case I hire a housekeeper up there — ” 

Slie put her hand on his mouth. 

“ No, no, no,” she said, triumphantly. “ Why, it is all 
arranged, long ago — all settled — every small point. Do I 
not know what cartridges to buy for you, for the rifle that 
Mr. Leslie is to lend you — do I not know even that small 
point?” 

She referred to her note-book. 

“ There it is,” she said. “ Eley-Boxer, 500 bore, for ex- 
23ress rifle — ” 

“Well, you know, Yolande,” said lie, to test her, “ I 
should have tliought that when the Master proposed to lend 
me a rifle, he might have presented me with some cart- 
ridges, instead of letting me buy them for myself.” 

But she did not see tlie point. 

“ Perhaps he did not remember,” said she, lightly. 
“ Perhaps it is not customary. No matter ; I shall have 


YOLANDE, 115 

them. It is very obliging that you get the loan of the rifle. 
Qaand on emprunte^ on ne choisit pas!*' 

“Very well, then ; go away, and let me finish my let- 
ter,” said he, good-naturedly. 

When she had gone he turned the sheet of paper that 
he had placed face downward, and continued : — 

“ When I had written the above Yolande came into the 
saloon. She has just gone, and everything is changed. It 
is impossible to look at her — so full of hope and life and 
cheerfulness — and be downcast about the future. It ap- 
pears to me now that wliatever trouble may befal will af- 
fect me only, and that that does not much matter, and that 
she will be living a hapjjy life far away there in the north 
without a care. Is it not quite simple ? She will no longer 
bear my name. Even if slie were to come to London — 
though it is far from j^robable they will ever have a London 
house, even for the season — she will come either as the 
Hon. Mrs. Leslie, or as Lady Lynn ; and nothing could oc- 
cur to alarm her or annoy her liusband. Everything ap- 
pears to have happened for the best, and I don-t see how 
any contretemps could arise. When we return to England 
the proposal is that Yolande should go on with the Grahams 
to Inverstroy, until I go down to a sliooting that I have 
rented for the season from Lord Lynn — Allt-nam-Ba is the 
name of the place — and there wo should be for the follow- 
ing three montlis. I don’t know how long the engage- 
ment of the young people is likely to last; but I should say 
they knew each other pretty well after being constantly in 
each other’s society all this time ; and I, of course, could 
wish for nothing better than a speedy marriage. Hor will 
there be any risk about that. Whether it takes place in 
the Higlilands, or at Weybridge, or anywhere else, there 
need be no great ceremony or publicity ; and I would 
gladly pay for a special license, which I could fairly do on 
the plea that it w.as merely a whim of my own. 

“Now as for yourself, dear old boy. Would you be 
surprised to hear tliat Yolande has just suggested — entirely 
her own suggestion, mind — that you should come and pay 
us a visit at that shooting-box? She has even decided tliat 
you are to have the bedroom farthest removed from the 
noise of the kennels, I do hope you will be able to go 
down with me for the Twelfth. With decent shooting, and 
if the moor is in its normal state, they say we should get 
1000 or 1200 brace ; and, besides that,Ahe moor abuts on 


no 


YOLAAWE. 


throe deer forests, and there is no reason, moral or legal, 
why you shouldn’t have a shot at such fercB naturce as may 
stray on to your ground. And then (which is, perhaps, a 
more important thing — at all events, you would be inter- 
ested, for I think you rather like the child) you would see 
what kind of a choice Yolande has made. I hope I am not 
blinded by my own wishes ; but it seems as if everything 
promised well. 

“ There is another thing I want to mention to you be- 
fore I close this screed — wiiich more resembles the letters 
of our youth than the staccato notes they call letters nowa- 
days. I have talked to you about this engagement as if it 
were a good arrangement — a solution, in fact, of a very 
awkward problem ; but don’t think for a moment that, 
when they do marry, it will be anything but a marriage of 
affection. Mr. Leslie is not so poor that he need to marry 
for money ; on tlie contrary, the family are fairly well off 
now, and the estates almost free ; and Yolande, on the other 
hand, is not the sort of creature to marry for title or social 
position. I saw that he was drawing toward her a long 
time ago — as far back, indeed, as the time of our arriving 
at Malta; and as for her, she made a friend and companion 
of him almost at the beginning of the voyage in a way very 
unusual with her ; for I liave noticed again and again, in 
travelling, how extremely reserved she was when any one 
seemed anxious to make her acquaintance. No doubt the 
fact tliat he was Mrs. Graham’s bi-other had something to 
do with it ; for the Grahams wei’e very kind to her at Oat- 
lands, and have been ever since, I need hardly say. It will 
be very pleasant to her to have such agreeable neighbors 
when she marries. Mrs. Graham treats her like a sister 
already. She will not be going among strange kinsfolk, nor 
among those likely to judge her harshly. 

“ So far we have enjoyed the trip very well, though, ot 
course, to some of us its chief interest lay in this little 
drama that now points, I liope, to a happy conclusion. We 
have had the whole Nile to ourselves — all the tourists gone 
long ago. The heat considerable : yesterday at midday it 
was 108 degrees in the shade ; but it is a dry lieat, and not 
bebilitating. Of course we keep under shelter on the 
hottest days. I hear that the wine at dinner is of a tem- 
perature of 90 degrees, there being no ice ; so that we 
abstainers have rather tlie best of it, the water, kept in 
porous jars, being much cooler than that. We visit 


YOLANDE. 


117 


Mcrliaclj to-day, and thereafter begin a series of excursions 
in the neigliborhood — if all goes well. But we heard some 
ugly rumors in Cairo, and may at any moment have to beat 
a swift retreat. 

“ As soon as I get back I shall begin my Parliamentary 
attendance again, and stick close to work until the end of 
the session, and I have no doubt the Government will give 
me plenty of chances of reminding the Slagpool people of 
my existence. 1 wisli yon would have a paragraph put in 
one of the London papers to the effect that the health of 
the member for Slagpool being now almost re-established 
by his visit to Egypt, he will in a few weeks be able to take 
his place again in the House. Then the Slagpool papers 
would copy. They have been very forbearing with me, 
those people ; I suppos# it is because I bully them. They 
would have turned out any more complaisant person long 
ago. 

“ Yolande — still harping on his daughter, you will say ; 
but it is only for a little while : soon I shall see and hear 
little enough of her — has undertaken the whole control and 
household management of the shooting-box, and I dare say 
she will make a hash of it ; but I don’t think you will be 
severe on her, if, as I hope, you can come to us. It will be 
an occupation and amusement for her while she is in the 
Highlands ; and I am very glad she is going to be with the 
Grahams during that interval. She wearied a good deal 
at Oatlands Park, though she tried not to show it ; and as 
for ever having lier in London again — no, that is impossible. 
Mrs. Leslie or Lady Lynn may come and live in London 
when she pleases — though 1 hope it may be many a year 
before she does so — but not Yolande Winterbourne. Poor 
child, she little knows what kind of a shadow there is behind 
her fair and bright young life. I hope she will never know ; 
I am beginning to believe now that she will never know ; 
and this that has just happened ought to give one courage 
and strength. 

“ Do not attempt to answer this letter. The writing ol 
it has been a relief to me. I may be back in town very 
shortly after you get it ; for we shall only stay in Cairo a 
few days to get some things for Yolande that may be of 
service to her after. 

Always your friend, 

“ G. K. WiNTEEBOtJENB. 

« P.S. — I should not wonder at all if, before this lettei 


118 


YOLANDE, 


gets posted even, that torment of fear and nervous appre- 
hension should again get possession of me. I wish the 
marriage were well over, and I left alone in London.” 

The various noises throughout the dahabeeyah now told 
him that all the people were stirring ; he carefully folded 
this letter and put it in his pocket (that he might read it 
over again at his leisure), and then he went out and up the 
stairs to the higher deck. Yolande was leaning with her 
elbows on the rail, gazing out on the wide waters and the 
far wastes of sand. She did not hear him approach ; -she 
was carelessly singing to herself some snatch of a French 
song, and doubtless not thinking at all how inappropriate 
the words were : 

“ OM! . . . c’est la terre de i'rance 
Ohe! . . . Garcons! bonne esperance! 

Vois-tu, la-bas, sous le ciel gris 
A I’borizon ? . . . C’est lepays! 

Madelon, Ferine 
Toinon, Catherine — ” 

“ Yolande,” said he ; and she started and turned round 
quickl}^. 

“ Why, you don’t seem to consider that you have taken 
a very serious step in life,” he said, with a smile. 

“Moi?” 

Then she recalled herself to her proper tongue. 

“I think it pleases every one ; do you not?” she said, 
brightly ; and there were no more forebodings possible 
when he found himself, as now, face to face with the shining 
cheerfulness of her eyes. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

OBEDIENCE. 

Yolande was right on that one point, at least : every 
one seemed greatly pleased. There was a new and obvious 
satisfaction permeating all through this little party in exile. 
Mrs. Graham was more affectionate than ever — it was “ dear 
Yolande ” every other minute ; Colonel Graham was as- 


YOLANDE, 


119 


sid lions in giving her perfectly idiotic advice about hei 
housekeeping at Allt-nam-Ba ; and the Master of Lynn 
souglit, hut sought in vain, for opportunities of having little 
confidential talks with her. And the most light-hearted of 
them all was Yolande herself. Pier decision once given 
she seemed to trouble herself no more about the future. 
Every one was pleaw,d ; so was she. She betrayed no con- 
cern ; she was not embarrassed by that increase of attention 
and kindness which, however slight, was easily recognizable 
and significant. To all appearance she was occupied, not 
in the least with her futuia duties as a wife, but solely and 
delightedly ivith preparations for the approaching visit to 
Merhadj ; and she was right thankful that they were going 
by water, for on two occasiona they had found the sand of 
the river-bank to be of a temperature of 140® in the sun, 
w'hich was not very pleasant for women-folk wearing thin- 
soled boots. 

When they had got into the stern of the big boat, and 
were being rowed up the wide, yellow-green river, her father 
could not help regarding this gayety of demeanor witli an 
increasing wonder, and even with a touch of apprehensive 
doubt. And then again he argued with himself. Why 
should she anticipate the gravities of life ? Why should 
she not be carele*ss and light-hearted, and happy in the 
small excitement of the moment? Would it not bo time 
to face the evil days, if there were to be any such, when 
they came ? And why should they come at all ? Surely 
some lives were destined for peace. Why should not the 
story of her life be like tlie scene now around them — placid, 
beautiful, and calm, with unclouded skies ? To some that 
was given, and Yolande (he gradually convinced himself) 
would be one of tliose. To look at her face — so full of life 
and pleasure and bright cheerfulness — was to acquire hope ; 
it was not possible to associate misery or despair with those 
clear-shining, confident eyes. Her life (he returned to the 
fancy) was to be like the scenery in which the courtship and 
engagement passage of it had chanced to occur — pretty, 
placid, unclouded, not too romantic. And so by the time 
they reached Merhadj he had grown to be, or had forced 
himself to appear, as cheerful as any of them. He knew he 
was nervous, fretful, and liable to gloomy anticipations ; 
but he also had a certain power of fighting against these, 
and that he could do best when Yolande was actually beside 
him. And was she not there now— merry and laughing 


120 


YOLANDE. 


aiKl delighted ; eagerly interested in these new scenes, and 
trying to talk to every one at once ^ He began to share in 
her excitement ; he forgot about those vague horoscopes 
it was the crowd of boats, and tlie children swimming in 
the Nile, and the women coming down with pitchers on 
their heads, and all the other busy and picturesque features 
along the shore that he was looking at, because she also was 
looking at them ; and it was no visionary Yolande of the 
future, but the very sensible and practical and light-liearted 
Yoland of that very moment, that lie had to grip by the 
arm with an angry remonstrance about her attempting to 
walk down the gangboard by herself, she only laughed ; she 
never believed much in her father’s anger. 

They got ashore to find themselves in the midst of a 
frightful tumult and confusion — at least so it appeared to 
them after the silence and seclusion of the daliabeeyah 
Donkeys were being driven down to the river, raising clouds 
of dust as they came trotting along; the banks swarmed 
with mules and camels and water-carriers, tlie Avomen were 
filling their pitchers, the boys their pigskin vessels ; the 
children Avere diving and splashing and calling; and 
altogether the bustle and clamor seemed different enough 
from the ordinary repose of Easteim life, and were even a 
trifle beAvildering. But in the midst of it all appeared 
young Ismat Effendi, avIio came hurrying down the bank to 
offer a hundred eager apologies for his not having been in 
time to receive tliem ; and under his guidance they got 
aAvay from the noise and squalor, and proceeded to cross a 
large open square, planted Avith a feAV acacia-trees, to the 
Governor’s house just outside the tOAvn. The young Ismat 
Avas delighted to be the escort of those tAvo English ladies. 
He talked very fast ; liis eyes Avere eloquent ; and his 
smiliijg face shoAved hoAv proud and pleased he Avas. And 
would they go through the town Avith him after they had 
done his father the honor of a A'isit? 

“ The bazars are not Ifice Cairo,” said he. “ No, no ; 
Avho could expect that? We are a small toAvn, but we are 
more Egyptian than Cairo ; Ave are not half foreign, like 
Cairo.” 

“ I am sure it Avill be all the more interesting on that 
account,” said Mrs. Graham, grrtciously ; and Yolande was 
pleased to express the same opinion ; and young Ismat 
Effendi’s face seemed to say that a great honor had been 
conferred on him and on Merhadj. 


YOLANDE. 


121 


And indeed they were sufhciently interested in what 
tliey could already see of the ]dace — this wide sandy square, 
M'ith its acacias in tubs, its strings of donkeys and camels, 
its vehed women and dusky men ; with the high bare walls 
of a mosque, tlie tapering minaret, some lower walls of 
houses, and everywhere a profusion of palms that bounded 
the further side. 

“ llillo, Mr. Tsmat! ” called out Colonel Graham, as two 
gangs of villanous-looking convicts, all chained to each 
other, came along under guard of a couple of soldiers. 
“ What have those fellows been doing? ” 

“ They are prisoners,” said he, carelessly. “ They have 
killed somebody or stolen something. We make them carry 
water.” 

The next new feature was a company of soldiers, in 
A^hite tunics and trousers and red tarbooshes, who marched 
quickly along to the shrill sharp music of bugles. They 
disappeared into tlie archway of a large square building. 

“That is my father’s house,” explained young Isrnat to 
the ladies. “ He looks to your visit with great pleasure. 
And the otlier gentlemen of the town, they are there also, 
and the chief engineer of the district. Your coming is a 
great lionor to us.” 

“I wish I knew a little Arabic,” said Mrs. Graham. “ I 
am sure we have not th.anked his Excellency half enough 
for his kindness in lending us his daltabeeyah.” 

“Oh, quite enough, quite enough,” said the polite young 
Egyi)tian. “ I assure you it is nothing. Though it is a 
]uty my father does not understand English, and not much 
F rench either. He has been very busy all his life, and not 
travelling. The other gentlemen speak French, like most 
of tlie official Egyptians.” 

“ And you,” said Mrs. Graham, regarding him with her 
pretty eyes, “ do you speak French as well as you speak 
English? ” 

“My English!” he said, with a slight shrug of his 
shoulders. “ It is very bad. I know it is very, very bad. 
I have never been in England ; I have had no practice 
except a little in India. But, on the contrary, I have lived 
three years in Paris; French is much more natural to mo 
than English.” 

“ It is so with me also, Mr. Ismat,” said Yolande, a trille 
sJiyly. 

“ With 3^011 ! ” he exclaimed. 


122 


YOLANDE. 


“ I have lived nearly all my life in France. But your 
English, that you spoke of is not in the least bad. It is 
very good — is it not Mrs. Graham ? ” 

Nothing further could be said on that point, howevei 
for they were just escaping from the glare of the sun into 
a cool high archway ; and from that they passed into a 
wide, open courtyard, wliere the guard of soldiers they had 
seen enter presented arms. Then they ascended some 
steps, and finally were ushei-ed into a large and lofty and 
barely furnished saloon, where the Governor and the notables 
of Merhadj received them with much serious courtesy. 
But this interview, as it turned out, was not quite so solemn 
as that on the deck of the dahabeeyah ; for, after what 
Ismat Effendi had said to the two ladies without, it was but 
natural that the conversation should be conducted in French; 
and so the coffee and cigarettes which were brought in by 
two young lads were partaken of in anything but silence. 
And then, as little groups were thus formed, and as Ismat’s 
services as interpreter were not in such constant demand, 
he somehow came to devote himself to the two ladies, and as 
Yolande naturally spoke French with much more ease and 
fiuency than Mrs. Graham, to her he chiefiy addressed him- 
self. The Master of Lynn did not at all like this arrange- 
ment. He was silent and impatient. He regarded this 
Frenchified Arab, who seemed to consider himself so fasci- 
nating,, with a goodly measure of robust English contem])t. 
And then he grew angry with his sister. She ought not to 
be, and she ought not to permit Yolande to be, so familiar 
with this Egyptian fellow. Did she not know that Egyptian 
ladies studiously kept their faces concealed? And what 
must he be thinking of these two English ladies, who 
laughed and chattered in this free and easy fashion ? 

Then, as regarded Yolande, liis gratitude for the great 
gift she had given him was still full in his mind, and he was 
willing to make every excuse for her, and to treat her with 
a manly forbearance and leniency ; but at the same time he 
could not get rid of a certain consciousness that she did not 
seem to recognize as she ought that he ha<l in a way, a right 
of possession. She bore herself to him just as slie bore 
herself to the others; if there wuis any one of the party 
whom she seemed specially to favor tliat morning as they 
came up the Nile, it was Colonel Graham, who did nothing 
but tease her. She did not seem to think there was any 
difference between yesterday and to-day, whereas yesterdav 


YOLANDE. 


123 


she was free, and to day she was a promised bride. How- 
ever, he threw most of the blame on his sister. Polly was 
always trying the effect of her eyes on somebody, and this 
Egyptian was as good as another. And he wondered how 
Graham allowed it. 

But matters grew worse when this ceremonious interview 
was over. For when they went to explore the narrow, 
twisting, mud-paved, and apparently endless bazars of IVlor- 
liadj, where there was scarcely room for the camels and 
donkeys, to pass without bumping them against the walls or 
shop doors, of course they had to go two and two ; and as 
young Ismat had to lead the way, and as he naturally con- 
tinued to talk to the person with whom he had been talking 
within it fell out that Yoland and he were the first pair, the 
others following as they pleased. Once or twice the Master 
struggled forward through the crowd and the dust and the 
donkeys, and tried to detach Yolande from her companion ; 
but in each case some circumstance happened to intervene, 
and he failed ; and the consequence was that, bringing up 
the rear with Mr. Winterbourne, who was not a talkative 
person, he had abundant leisure to nurse his wrath in silejice. 
And he felt he had a right to be angry, though it was not 
pei’haps altogether her faith. She did not seem to under- 
stand that there’ were relations existing between engaged 
people different from those existing between others. He 
had acquired a certain riglit : so, in fact, had she ; for fte 
put it to himself whether, supposing he had had the cliance 
of walking through those miserable little streets of Merhadj 
with the prettiest young Englishwoman who ever lived, he 
would have deserted Yolande for her side. No, he would 
not. And he thought that he ought to remonstrate ; and 
that he would remonstrate ; but yet in a kindly way, so that 
no offence could be taken. It would be no offence, surely, 
to beg from her just a little bit more of her favor. 

Meanwhile, this was the conversation of those two in 
front, as they slowly made their Avay along the tortuous, 
catacomb looking throughfare, with its dusky little shops, 
in the darkness of each of which sat the merchant, cross- 
legged, and gazing impassively out from under his large 
white turban. 

“ What is it, then, you wish?” he was saying to her; 
and he spoke in French that was much more idiomatic, if 
not any more fluent, than his English. “ Curiosities ? Bric- 

a-brao ? 


124 


YOLANDE. 


“ It is something very Eastern, very Egyptian, that I could 
send to the ladies at the Chateau Avhere I was brought up,” 
she said, as she attentively scanned each gloomy recess. 
“ And also I would like to buy something for Mrs. Graham — 
a little present — I know not what. Also for my papa. Is 
there nothing very strange — very curious ! ” 

“ But, alas ! mademoiselle,” said he, ‘‘ we have here no 
manufactures. Our business of the neighborhood is agri- 
culture. All these articles in the bazar are from Cairo ; we 
have not even any of the Assiout pottery, which is pretty 
and curious, but perhaps not safe to carry on a long journey 
The silver jewelry is all from Cairo ; those silks from Cairo 
also ; those cottons from England.” 

“ At Cairo, then, one could purchase some things truly 
Egyptian ?” 

“ Certainly — certainly, mademoiselle, you will find tlie 
bazars at Cairo full of interest. Ah, I wish with all my heart 
I could accompany you ! ” 

“ That would be to encroach entirely too much on your 
goodness,” said she with a pleasant smile. 

Xot at all,” said he, earnestly. “Ah, no; not at 
all. It is so charming to find one’s self for a time in new 
society ; and if one can be of a little assistance, that is so 
much the better. There is also something I would speak to 
monsieur your father about mademoiselle, before you return 
to the dahabeeyah. I have arranged one or two excursions 
for you, which may interest you perhaps ; and the necessary 
means are all prepared ; and I think it might be of advantage 
to begin these at once. There is no danger — no, no ; there 
is no cause for any alarm ; but always of late the political 
atmosphere has been somewhat disturbed ; and if you were 
at Cairo you would find out better what was going to hap- 
pen then we ourselves do here. Then as you have said, you 
would wish to buy some things ; and you will have need of 
plenty of time to go through the bazars — ” 

He seemed to speak with a little caution at this point. 

“I have heard the gentlemen speak of it,” said she, with 
no great concern, for she was far from being a nervous 
person ; “ but they seemed to think there was no danger.” 

“ Danger ? Ho, no,” said he. “ For you there can be 
no danger. But if there is political disquiet and disturbance, 
it might not be quite agreeable for you ; and that is all 1 
wish to say to monsieur your father, that he Avould have the 
goodness to make the excursions as soon as possible, and so 


yULAI\/DE, 


125 


leave more time for judging the situation. It is a hint — it 
is a suggestion — that is all.” 

“ I am sure that my papa and Colonel Graham will do 
whatever you think best,” said she. 

“ You are very good, mademoiselle. I wish to serve 
them,” said he, with grave courtesy. 

Well, not only did this young man — whether intention- 
ally or not it was impossible to say — monopolize Yolande’g 
society during the remainder of tlieir exploration of Mer- 
hadj, but, furthermore, on their embarking in their boat to 
return, he accepted an invitation to dine with them that 
same evening; and tlie Master of Lynn was determined 
that, before young Ismat put foot on board the dahabeeyah. 
Yolande would be civilly but firmly requested to amend 
her ways. It was all very well for his sister, wlio was a 
born dirt, to go about making great friends with strangers; 
and it was all very Avell for Colonel Graham, who was too 
lazy to care about anything, to look on with good-humored 
indifference. But already this audacious youth had begun 
to pose Yolande as an exalted being. She knew nothing 
about garrison life in India. 

He had very considerable difficulty in obtaining a pri- 
vate conversation with Yolande, for life on board the 
dahabeeyah was distinctly public and social ; but late on in 
the afternoon he succeeded. 

So, Yolande,” said he, with an artful carelessness, 
“ this has been the first day of our engagement.” 

“ Oh yes,” said she, looking up in a pleasant way. 

“We haven’t seen much, of each other,” he suggested. 

“ Ah, no ; it has been such a busy day. How much 
nicer is the quiet here, is it not ? ” 

“ But you seemed to find Ismat Effiendi sufficiently- 
amusing,” he said, somewhat coldly. 

“ Oh yesj” she answered, quite frankly. “ And so 
clever and intelligent. I hope we shall see him when he 
comes to England.” 

“ I thought,” said he, “ that in France young ladies were 
brought up to be rather reserved — that they were not sup- 
posed to become so friendly with chance acquaintances.” 

Perhaps there w'^as something in the tone that caused her 
to look up, this time rather seriously. 

“ I should not call him a chance acquaintance,” she said, 
•lowly. “ He is the friend of Colonel Graham, and of papa^ 


126 


YOLANDE. 


and of yourself.” And then she added, speaking still slowly 
and still regarding him, “ Did you think I was not enough 
reserved ? ” 

Well, there was a kind of obedience in her manner — a 
sort of biddableness in her eyes — that entirely took the 
wind out of the sails of his intended reproof. 

“You see, Yolande,” said he, in a- much more friendly 
way, “ perhaps it was mere bad luck ; but after getting 
engaged only last night, you may imagine I wanted to see a 
little of you to-day ; and you can’t suppose that I quite 
liked that Egyptian fellow monopolizing you the whole time- 
Of course I am not jealous — and not jealous of that fellow 
— for jealousy implies suspicion ; and I know you too well. 
But- perhaps you don’t quite understand that people who 
are engaged have a little claim on each other, and expect to 
be treated with a little more intimacy and friendliness 
than as if they were outsiders.” 

“ Oh yes, I understand,” she said, with her eyes cast 
down. 

“ Of course I am not complaining,” he continued, in the 
most amiable way. “ It would be a curious thing if I were 
to begin to complain now, after w'hat you said last night. 
But you can’t wonder if I am anxious to have all your 
kindness to myself, and that I should like you and me to 
have different relations between ourselves than those we 
have with other people. An engagement means giving up 
something on both sides, I suppose. Do you think I should 
like to see you waltzing with any one else now ? It isn’t 
in human nature that I should like it.” 

“ Then I will not waltz with any one,” she said, still 
looking down. 

“ And I don’t think you will find me a tyrannous sort of 
person, Yolande,” said he with a smile, “even if you wore 
inclined to make an engagement a much more serious 
matter than you seem to consider it. It is more likely you 
who will prove the tyrant ; for you have your own way 
with everybody, and why not with me too? And I hope 
you understand why I spoke, don’t you? You don’t think 
it unkind ? ” 

“ Oh no, I quite understand,” she said, in the same low 
voice. 

Ismat Effendi came to dinner, as he had promised. She 
spoke scarcely a word to him the whole evening. 


YOLANDE. 


127 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A CHAT IN THE DESERT. 

“ Archie,” said his sister, on one occasion, in rather a 
significant tone, “ you will have some trouble with papa.” 

They were on their way to visit a convent some few 
miles inland, and the only thing that varied the monotony 
of the journey was the occasional stumbling of the wretched 
animals they rode. He glanced round to see that the others 
were far enough off, then he said, either carelessly or with 
an affectation of carelessness, — 

“ I dare say. Oh yes, I have no doubt of it. But there 
would have been a row in any case, so it does not matter 
much. If I had brought home the daughter of an arch- 
angel he would have growled and grumbled. He gave 
you a })retty warm time of it, Polly, before he let you marry 
Graham.” 

And then he said, with more vehemence, — 

“ Hang it all, my father doesn’t understand the con- 
dition of things nowadays ! The peerage isn’t sacred any 
longer ; you can’t expect people to keep on intermarrying 
and intermarrying, just to please Burke. We can show a 
pretty good list, you know, and I wouldn’t add any name 
to it that would disgrace it ; but that craze of my father’s 
is all nonsense. Why, the only place nowadays where a 
lord is worshipped and glorified is the United States ; that’s 
where I should have gone if I had wanted to marry for 
money I dare say they would have found out that sooner 
or later I should succeed to a peerage. Of course my 
father is treated with great respect when he goes to attend 
meetings at Inverness ; and the keepers and gillies think he 
is the greatest man in the kingdom ; but what would he be 
in London ? Why, there you find governing England a 
commoner, whose family made their money in business ; 
and under him — and glad enough to take office too — noble- 
men whose names are as old as the history of England — ” 

His sister interrupted him. 

“My d(5ar Master,” said she, “please remember that 
because a girl is pretty^, her father’s politics are not neces 


128 


YOLANDE. 


sarily right. If you have imbibed liiose frightful senth 
ments from Mr. Winterbourne, for goodness’ sake say 
nothing about them at the Towers. Tlie matter will be 
difficult enough without that. You see, with anybody 
else, it might be practicable to shelve politics, but i?f[r. Win- 
terbourne’s views and opinions are too widely known ; and 
you will have quite enough difficulty in getting papa to re- 
ceive Mr. Winterbourne with decent civillity, without your 
talking any wild Radicalism in that way.” 

“ Radicalism ? ” said he. “ It is not Radicalism. It is 
common-sense, which is just the reverse of Radicalism. 
However, what I have resolved on is this, Polly : his lord- 
ship shall remain in complete ignorance of the whole afl'air 
until Yolande goes to Allt-narn-Ba. Then he will see her. 
That ought to do something to smooth the way. There is 
another thing, too. Winterbourne has taken Allt-nam-Ba, 
and my father ought to be well disposed to him on that ac- 
count alone.” 

“Because a gentleman rents a shooting from you for 
one year — ” 

“But why one year?” he interposed, quickly. “ Why 
shouldn’t Winterbourne take a lease of it ? He can well 
aHord it. And with Yolande living up there, of course he 
would like to come and see her sometimes ; and Allt-nam- 
Ba is just the place for a man to bring a baclielor friend or 
two with him from London. He can well afford it. It is 
his only amusement. It would be a good arrangement for 
me too ; for I could lend him a hand ; and the moor wants 
hard shooting, else we shall be having the disease back 
again some fine day. Then we should continue to let the 
forest.” 

“ And where are you and Yolande going to live, then ? ” 
said his sister, regarding him with a curious look. “ Are 
you going to install her as mistress of the Towers?” 

“ Take her to Lynn !” he said, with a scornful laugh. 
“ Yes, I should thmk so ! Cage her up with that old cat, 
indeed !” 

“ She is my aunt as well as yours, and I will not have 
her spoken of like that,” said Mrs. Gi-aham, sharply. 

“ She is my aunt,” said this young man ; “ and she is 
yours ; and she is an old cat as well. Never mind, Polly. 
You will see such things at Lynn as your small head never 
dreamed of. The place has just been starved for want of 
money. You must see that when you think of Inverstroy; 


YOLANDE. 


129 


»ook how^ well everything is done there. And then, when 
you consider how we have been working to pay off scores 
run up by other people — that seems rather hard, doesn’t it ? ’ 

^ “I don’t think so — I don’t think so at all!” liis sister 
saia, promptly. “ Our family may have made mistakes 
in politics ; but that was better than always truckling to 
the winning side. We have nothing to be ashamed of. And 
you ought to be very glad that so much of the land remains 
ours,” 

“Well, you wull see what can be made of it,” her 
brother said, confidently. “ I don’t regret now the long 
struggle to keep the place together ‘ and once we get back 
Corrievreak, we’ll have the watershed for the march 
again.” 

His face brightened up at this prospect. 

“ That will be something, Polly ? ” he said, gayly. 
“What a view' there is from the tops all along that march ! 
You’ve got tlffe wdiole of Inverness-shire spread out around 
yon like a map. I think it was £8000 my grandfather got 
for Corrievreak ; but I suppose Sir John will w'ant £15,000. 

I know he is ready to part w'ith it, for it is of little use to 
him ; it does not lie well w'ith his forest. But if w^e had it 
back — and with the sheep taken off Allt-nam-Ba — ” 

“ Jim says you ought to make Corrievreak tke 
sanctuary,” his sister remarked ; and indeed she seemed 
quite as much interested as he in these joyful forecasts. 

“ Why, of course. There couldn’t be a better — ” 

“ And I w^as saying that if you planted the Rushen 
slopes, and built a good large comfortable lodge there, you 
would get a far better rent for the forest. You know it 
isn’t like the old days, Archie : the people who come from 
the south now', come because it is the fashion ; and they 
must have a fine house for their friends — ” 

“ Yes, and hot luncheons sent up the hill, wdth cham- 

E agne glasses and table napkins ! ” said he. “No more 
iscuits and a flask to last you from morning till night. 
The next thing will be a portable dining-table that can be 
taken up into one of the corries ; and then they will have 
finger-glasses, I suppose, after lunch. No matter. For 
there is another thing, my sw^eet Mrs. Graham, that per- 
haps you have not considered : it may come to pass that, as 
time goes on, we may not have to let the forest at all. 
That would be much better than being indebted to your 
tenant for a day’s stalking in your ow'n forest.” 


130 YOLANDE. 

And then it seemed to. strike him that all this planning 
and arranging — on the basis of Yolande’s fortune — sounded 
just a little bit mercenary. 

“ To hear us talking like this,” said he, with a laugh, 

“ any one would imagine that I was marrying in order to 
improve, the Lynn estate. Well, we haven’t quite come to 
that yet, I hope. If it were merely a question of money, I 
could have gone to America, as I said. That would have 
been the market for the only kind of goods Fve got to sell. 
No. I don’t think any one can bring that against me.” 

“ I, for one, would not think of accusing you of any 
such things,” said his sister, warmly. “ I hope you would 
have more pride. Jim was poor enough when I married 
him.” 

“Now if I were marrying for money,” said he — and he 
seemed eager to re])ut this charge — “ I would have no scru- 
ples at all about asking Yolande to go and live at Lynn. Of 
course it would be a very economical arran|;ement. But 
would I ? I should think not. I wouldn’t have her shut 
up there for anything. But 1 ho])e she will like the house, 
as a visitor, and get on well with my father and my aunt. 
Don’t you think she will produce a good impression? 
What I hope for most of all is that Jack Melville may take 
a fancy to her. Tliat would settle it in a minute, you know. 
Whatever Melville approves, that is right — at the Towei-s 
of anywhere else. It’s his cheek, you know. He believes 
in himself, and everybody else believes in him. It isn’t 
only at Gress that he is the dominie. ‘ He is a scholar and 
a gentleman’ — that is my beloved auntie’s pet phrase, as if 
his going to Oxford on the strength of the Ferguson scholar- 
ship made him an authority on the right constructicn of a 
salmon ladder.” 

“ Is that the way you speak of your friends behind their 
back ? ” 

“ Well, he jumps upon me considerably,” said he, frankly : 

“ and I may as well take it out of him when he is at Gress 
and I am in Egypt. No matter. If he takes a fancy to 
Yolande it will be all right. That is how they do with* 
cigars and wines in London — ‘ specially selected and ap- 
proved by Messrs. So-and-so.’ It is a guarantee of genuine 
quality. And so it will be ‘ Yolande Winterbourne, ap- 
proved by Jack Melville, of Monaglen, and forwarded on to 
Lynn Towers.’ ’ 

“If that is all, that can be easily managed.” said hia 


YOLANDE. 


131 


sister, cheerfully. “ When she is with us at Inverstroy wa 
will take her over to call on Mrs. Bell.” 

“ I know what Mrs. Bell wili call her — I know the very 
phrase : she will say, ‘She is a bonnie doo, that.’ The old 
lady is rather proud of the Scotch she picked up in the 
south.” 

“ She ought to be prouder of the plunder she picked up 
further south still. She ‘ drew up wi’ glaiket Englishers at 
Carlisle Ha’ ’ to some purpose.” 

“ Yes ; and Jack Melville will have every penny of it; 
and a good solid nest-egg it must be by this time. I am 
certain the old lady has an eye on Monaglen. What an 
odd thing it would be if Melville were to have Monaglen 
handed over to him just as we were getting back Cor- 
rievreak ! I think there are some curious changes in store in 
that part of the world.” 

At this point Mrs. Graham pulled up her sorry steed, 
and waited until the rest of the cavalcade came along. 

“ Yolande dear,” said she, in a tone of remonstrance, 
“ Why don’t you come on in front, and get less of the dust ? ” 

Yolande did as she was bid. 

“ I have been so much interested,” said she, brightly. 
“ What a chance it is to learn about Afghanistan and 
Kussia — from one who knows, as Colonel Graham does! 
You read and read in Parliament; but they all contradict each 
other. And Colonel Graham is quite of my papa’s opinion.” 

“Well, now, the stupidity of it!” said pretty Mrs. 
Graham, vdth an affected i^etulance. “ You people have 
been talking away about Afghanistan, and Archie and I 
have been talking away about the Highlands — in the Africam 
desert. What is the use of it ? We ought to talk about 
what is around us.” 

“ I propose,” sjwd the Master of Lynn. “ that Yolande 
gives us a lecture on the antiquities of Karnac.” 

“Do you know, then, that I could?” said she. “ But 
not this Karnac. No ; the one in Brittany. I lived near it 
at Auray, for a long time, before I was taken to the 
Chateau.” 

“My dear Yolande.” exclaimed Mrs. Graham, “ if you 
will tell us about yourself, and your early life and all that, 
we will pack off all the mummies and tombs and pillars 
that ever existed.” 

“ But there is no story at all, except a sad one,” said 
the girl. “ My uncle was a French gentleman — ah, so kind 


132 


YOLANDE. 


he was ! — and one day in the winter he was shot in the 
woods when he and the other gentleman were out. Oli, it 
must have been terrible when they broiight liim home — not 
quite dead ! But they did not tell me ; and perhaps I was too 
young to experience all the misery. But it killed my aunt, 
who had taken me away from England when my mother 
died. She would not see any one ; she shut herself up ; 
then one morning she was found dead ; and then tliey sent 
for my father, and he took me to the ladies at the Chateau. 
That is all. Perhaps if I had been older I sliould have un- 
derstood it more, and been more grieved ; but now, when I 
look back at Auray and our living there, I think mostly of 
the long drives with my aunt, when my uncle was away at 
the chase, and often and often we drove along the peninsula 
of Quiberon, which not every one visits. And was it a 
challenge, then,” she added, in a brighter way, “ about a 
lecture on Karnac ? Oh, I can give you one very easily. 
For I have read all tlie books about it, and I can give you 
all the theories about it, each of which is perfectly self- 
evident, and all of them quite contradictory, Shall I be- 
gin ? It was a challenge.” 

“ No, Yolande, I would far rather hear your own theory,” 
said he, gallantly. 

“ Mine ? I have not the vanity.” she said, lighty. “ But 
this is what all the writers do not know, that besides the 
long rows of stones in the open plains — oh, hundreds and 
thousands, so thick that all the farmhouses and the stone 
walls have been built of them besides these, all through the 
woods, wherever you go, you come uj^on separate dolmens, 
sometimes almost covered over. My aunt and I used to 
stop the carriage, and go wandering through the woods in 
search ; and always we tliought these were the graves of 
pious people who wished to be buried in a sacred place — 
near where the priests were sacrificing in the plain — and 
peihaps that their friends had brought their bodies from 
lome distant land.” 

“ Just as the Irish kings were carried to Iona to be 
buried,” said the Master. 

But, Yolande dear,” said Mrs. Graham, who was more 
interested in the story of Yolande’s youth than in Celtic 
monuments, “ how did you come to keep up your English, 
since \mu have lived all your life in France?” 

“But my aunt spoke English, naturally,” said she. 
“Then at the Chateau one of tiie ladies also spoke it--oh, 1 


yolaa^dj:. 


133 


assure 7011 , there was no European language she did not 
speak, nor any country she did not know, for she had been 
travel ling companion to a noble lady. And always her 
belief was that you must learn Latin as the first key.’^ 

“Then did you learn Latin, Yolande?” the Master of 
Lynn inquired, with some vague impression that the ques- 
tion was jocular, for Yolande had not revealed any traces 
of erudition. 

“ If you will examine me in Virgil, 1 tliinki shall pass,” 
said she; “but in Horace — not at all. It is distressing 
the way he twists tlie meaning about the little short lines, and 
hides it away ; I never had patience enough for him. All, 
there is one who does not hide his meaning, there is one who 
can write the line that goes straight and sounding and 
majestic. You have not to puzzle over the moaning when 
it is Victer Hugo who recounts to you the story of 
Huy JBlaSy of Cromwell, of Angelo, of Jlernani, That is 
not the poetry that is made with needles.” 

Mrs. Graham was scarcely prepared for this declaration 
of faith. 

“My dear Yolande,” said she, cautiously, “Victor 
Hugo’s dramas are very fine ; but I would not call them 
meat for babes. At the Chateau, now — ” 

“ Oh, they were strictly forbidden,” she said, frankly. 
“Madame would have stormed if she had known. But we 
read them all the same. Why not ? What is the harm ? 
Every one knows that there is crime and wrong in tlie 
world ; why should one shut one’s eyes? — that is folly. Is 
it not better to be indignant that there should be such crime 
and wrong? If there is any one who takes harm from such 
writing, he must be a strange pui-son.” 

“At all events, Yolande,” said he, “1 hope you don’t 
think that all kings are scoundrels, and all convicts angels 
of light I Victor Hugo is all very well, and he thunders 
along in fine style ; but don’t you think he comes awfully 
near being ridiculous ? lie hasn’t much notion of a joke, 
has he ? Don’t you think he is rather too portentously 
Bolemn ? ” 

Well, this inquiry into Yolande’s opinions and exper- 
iences — which was intensely interesting to him, and natu- 
rally so — was eliciting some odd revelations ; for it now 
appeared that she had arrived at the conclusion that th« 
French, as a nation, were a serious and sombre peoj)le. 

“ Do you not think so ? ” she said, with wide eyes. “ Oh, 


YOr.AXDE. 


I3i 

r have found them so grave. The poor people in tlie fieldsj 
wlicn you speak to them aud tl)ey answer, it is always Avith 
a sigh ; they look sad and tired ; tlie care of work lies heavi- 
ly on them. And at the Chateau, also, everything Avas so 
serious and formal ; and Avhon avc paid visits tliere Avas none 
of the freedom, the amusement, tlie good-luimor, of tlie En- 
glish house. Sometimes, indeed, at Oatlands, at Weybridge, 
and once or twice in London, Avhen my papa has taken me 
to Ausit, I have thought the mamma a little blunt in lier 
trankncss — in tlie expectation you Avould find yourself at 
home Avithout any trouble on her part ; but the daughters — 
oh, they were ahvays very kind, and tlien so full of interest, 
about boating, or tennis, or something like that — ahvays so 
full of spirits, and cheerful — no, it was not in the least like 
a visit to a French family. In France, how many yettrs is 
it before you become friends with a neighbor? In England, 
if you are among nice peojilo, it is — to-morrow. You, dear, 
Mrs. Graham, when you came to Oatlands, Avliat did you 
knoAv about me? Nothing.” 

“ Bless the child, had I not my eyes ? ” Mrs. Graham ex- 
claimed. 

“ But before tAvo or three days you Avere calling me by 
my Christian name.” 

“ Indeed I did,” said Mrs. Graham ; “ if it is a Christian 
name, which I doubt. But this I may suggest to you, my 
dear Yolande, that you don’t pay me a comjiliment, after' 
the friendship you speak of, and the relationship Ave are all 
hoping for, in calling me by my married name. The name 
of Folly is not very romantic — ” 

“Oh, dear Mrs. Graham, I couldn’t!” said Yolande, 
almost in affright. 

“ Of course not,” said the pretty young matron, Avith 
one of her most charming smiles. “ Of course you couldn’t 
be guilty of such familiarity with one of my advanced 
age. But I^suppose Jim is right; I am getting old. Only 
he doesn’t seem to consider that a reason for treating me 
with any increasing respect.” 

“ I am sure I neA^er thought of such a thing,” Yolande 
protested, almost in a voice of entreaty. “ How could you 
imagine it ?” 

“ Very Avell. But if you consider that ‘ Folly ’ is not m 
accordance Avith my age or my serious character as a 
mother and a wife, there is a compromise in ‘ Mary,’ 
which indeed, was my proper name until I fell into tht 


YOLAJVDE. 


136 


hands of men. I used always to be called Mary, until 
Archie and Jim began with their impertinence. And when 
we are in the Highlands together, you know, and you are 
Htaying with us at Inverstroy, or we are visiting you at 
Allt-nam-Ba, or wlien we are all together at the Towers, 
whatever would the people think if they heard you call 
me ‘ Mrs. Graham T They would think we had quarrelled.’’ 

“Then you are to be my sister Mary ?” said Yolande, 
placidly ; but the Master of Lynn flushed with pleasure 
when he heard that phrase. 

“ And I will be your champion and protectress when 
you come into our savage wilds in a way you can’t dream 
of,” continued pretty Mrs. Graham. “You don’t know 
how we stand by each other in the highlands. AYo stand up 
for our own ; and you will be one of us in good time. And 
you haven’t the least idea wdiat a desperate person I am 
when my temper is up— though Jim w^ould, tell you he 
knows. Well, now, I suppose that is the convent over 
there, behind those ])alms ; and we have been chattering 
the -whole way about the Highlands, and Victor Hugo, and 
I don’t know -w^hat; and I haven’t the least idea what wo 
are going to see or what tve have to do.” 

But here the dragoman came up to assume the leader- 
ship of the party, and the Master of Lynn allowed himself 
to be eclipsed. He was not sorry. He w'as interested far 
less in the things around him than in the glimpses he had 
just got of Yolande’s earlier years ; and he was trying to 
place these one after another, to make a connected picture 
of her life up till the time that this journey brought liim 
and her together. Could anything be more preoccu])ying 
than this study of the companion who was to be with him 
through all the long future time? And already she wa« 
related to him ; she had chosen his sister to be hers. 


CHAPTER XVIIL 

A PnBASE. 

But these idle wanderings of theirs in Upper Egypt 
wore destined to come to a sudden end. One evening they 
were coming down the river, and were about to pag® 
Merhadj, when they saw young Ismat Effendi putting oU 


YOLANDE. 


\m 

in another boat, evidently with the intention of intercepting 
them. They immediately ordered their boat to be pulled in 
to the shore ; and as Isinat said he wanted to say something 
to them, they stepped on board his father’s dahabecyah, 
and went into the saloon, for the sake of coolness. 

Then the bright-faced young Egyptian, who seemed at 
once excited and embarrassed, told them, in his fluent and 
oddly plirased English, that he was much alarmed, and 
tliat his alarm was not on account of any danger that 
might happen to them, but was the fear that they might 
think him discourteous and inhospitable. 

“ Who could think that ? ” said pretty Mrs. Graham, 
in her sweetest way. 

“Of course not. What’s the matter?*’ said her 
husband, more bluntly. 

Then young Ismat proceeded to explain that the latest 
news from the capital was not satisfactory ; that many 
Europeans were leaving the country ; that the reports in 
the journals were very contradictory ; and that, in short, 
no one seemed to know what might not happen. And 
then he went on to im])lore them, if he suggested that they 
ought to return to Cairo, and satisfy themselves of their 
safety by going to tlie English Consulate there, not to 
imagine Uiat he wished them to shorten their visit, or that 
his father desired to dispossess them of the dahabeeyah. 
“ How could that be,” he said, quite anxiously, “ when 
here was another dahabeeyah lying idle? No; the other 
dahabeeyah was wholly at their service for as long as they 
chose ; and it would be a great honor to his father, and the 
highest hapj)ine8S to himself, if they weia3 to remain at 
Merhadj for the longest period they could command ; but 
was he not bound, especially when there were two ladies 
with them, to let thorn know what he had heard, and give 
them counsel ? ” 

“ My dear fellow, we understand perfectly,” said Colonel 
Graham, with his accustomed good-humor. “ And much 
obliged for the hint. Fact is, I think we ought to get back 
to Cairo in any case ; for these wmmen-folk want to have a 
turn at the bazars, and by the time they have half ruined 
us, we shall just be able to get along to Suez to catch the 
Ganges — ” 

“ We must have plenty of time in Cairo, ” said Mrs. 
Graham, emphatically. 

“Oh yes,” said he. “'Never mind the danger. Lot 


YOLANDE, 


137 


them buy silver necklaces, and they won’t heed anything 
else. Very well, Mr. Ismat, come along with us now and 
have some dinner, and we can talk things over. We shall 
just be in time.” 

“ May I ? ” said the young Egyptian to Mrs. Graham. 
“ I am not intruding ? ” 

“We shall be delighted if you will come with us,” said 
she, with one of her most gracious smiles. 

“ It will not be pleasant for mo when you go,” said he. 
“ There is not much society here.” 

“ Nor will you find much society when you come to see 
us at Iiiverstroy, Mr. Ismat,” she answered. “ But we will 
make up for that by giving you a true Highland welcome; 
shall we not, Yolande dear? ” 

Yolande was not in the least embarrassed. She had quite 
grown accustomed to consider the Highlands as her future 
home. 

“I hope so,” she said, sim])ly. “We are not likely to 
forget the kindness Mr. Ismat has shown to us.” 

“ Oh, mademoiselle ! ” said he. 

Now this resolve to go back to Cairo, and to get along 
from thence in time to catch tlie P. and O. steamer Ganges 
at Suez, was hailed wdth satisfaction by each member of the 
little party, though for very different reasons. Mr. Win- 
terbourne was anxious to be at St. Steplien’s before the 
Budget ; and he could look forward to giving uninterrupted 
attention to his Pm’liamentry duties, for Yolande was going 
on to Investroy with the Grahams. Yolande herself was glad 
to think that soon she would be installed as house-mistress 
at Allt-nam-Ba ; she had all her lists ready for the shops at 
Inverness ; and she wanted time to have the servants tested 
before her father’s arrival. Mrs. Graham, of course, lived 
in the one blissful hope of seeing Baby again ; while her 
husband was beginning to tllink that a little salmon-fishing 
would be an excellent thing. But the reason the Master of 
Lynn had for welcoming this decision was much more 
occult. 

“ Polly,” he had said to his sister on the previous day, 
“do you know, your friend Miss Yolande — ” 

“My friend ! ” she said, staring at him. 

“ She seems more intimate with you than -with any one 
else, at all events,” said he. “ Weil, I was going to say 
that she takes things pretty coolly.” 

“ I don’t \inderstand you.” 


138 


YOLAA^DE. 


“ I say she takes Ihiiigs veiy coolly,” lie r(*j»catcd. “No 
one would imagine she was engaged at all.” 

“Are you complaining of her already ? ” 

“ I am not complaining ; I am stating a fact.” 

“ What is wrong then? Do you want her to go about 
proclaiming her engagement? Why, she can’t, You 
haven’t given her an engagement ring yet. Give her her 
engagement ring first and then she can go about and show 
it.’^ 

“ Oh, you know very well what 1 mean. You know 
that no one cares less about sentimentality and that sort of 
thing than I do ; I don’t believe in it much ; but still — she is 
just a trifle too business-like. She seems to say : ‘ Did I 

promise to marry ? Oh. very well ; all right, when the 
time comes. Call again to-morrow.’ Of course my idea 
would not be to have a languishing love-sick maiden always 
lolloping at your elbow ; but her absolute carelessness and 
indifference — ” 

“Oh, Archie, hc^w can you say such a thing ! She is 
most friendly with you — ” 

“Friendly! Yes; so she is with Graham. Is it the 
way they bring up girls in France? — to have precisely the 
same amount of friendliness for everybody— lovers, husbands, 
or even other people’s husbands. It is convenient, certainly ; 
but things might get mixed.” 

“ I wonder to hear you,” said Mrs. Graham, indignantly. 
“You don’t deserve your good fortune. The fact is, Yo- 
lande Winterbourne happens to have very good health and 
spirits, and she is naturally light-hearted ; whereas you 
would like to have her sombre and mysterious, I suppose ; 
or perhaps it is the excitement of lovers’ quarrels that you 
want. Is that it? Do you want to be quarrelling and 
making up again all day long? Well, to tell you the truth, 
Archie, you haven’t hit on the right sort of girl. Now 
SShena Yan would have suited you ; she has a temper that 
would have given you amusement — ” 

“Leave Miss Stewart alone,” he said, roughly. “I 
wish there were many woman in the world like her: if there 
are, I haven’t met them.” 

“ Yolande is too good for you.” 

“ So she seems to think, at all events.” 

“ Why don’t you go and quarrel with her, then ? Wha* 
is the use of coming and talking over the matter with 
me ? ” 


VOLANDE. 


130 


“With Iier? It wouldn’t interest her. She would 
rather talk about the price of coals, or the chances of the 
Irish getting Home Rule — anything but what ought to be 
the most important event in her life.” 

“ Archie,” said his sister, who did not attach too much 
seriousness to these temporary moods of disappointment, “ if 
papa finds out that ]\[r. Winterbourne is half -inclined, and 
more than half inclined, to favor Home Rule, he will go 
out of his senses.” 

“ Let him go out of his senses,” said her brother, with 
deliberate indifference. “ I suppose the worst that could 
happen would be the breaking off of the match.” 

Blit this possibility, involving the destruction of all her 
beautiful plans and dreams of the future, instantly awoke 
her alarm ; and her protest was emphatic. 

“Archie,” said she, regarding him sternly, “ I beg you 
to remember that you are expected to act as a gentle- 
man,” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said. 

“I will tell you, plain enough. You have asked this 
girl to be your wife ; she has accepted you ; your engage- 
ment has been made known ; and I say this, that if you 
were to throw her over — I don’t care for what reason — you 
would stamp yourself as a coward. Is that plain ? A girl 
may be allowed to change her mind — at least she some- 
times does, and there is not much said against her; but the 
man who engages hiniself to a girl, and allows the engage- 
ment to be know and talked about, and then throws her 
over, I say is a coward, neither more nor less. And I don’t 
believe it of you. 1 don’t believe you would allow papa or 
any one else to interfere, now the thing is settled. The 
Leslies are not made of stuff like that.” 

“That is. all very well ” — he was going to urge; but 
the impetuous little woman would have her say. 

“ What is more, I honor her highly for her reserve. 
There is nothing more disgusting than to see young people 
dawdling and fondling in the presence of others. You don’t 
want to be Jenny and Jock going to the fair, do you?” 

“ Look- here, Demosthenes ” he said calmly. “You are 
are as good as any one I know at drawing a herring across 
llie scent ; but you are j^crfectly aware all the time of what 
1 mean.” 

This somewhat disconcerted her. 

“ Well I am — in a way,” she said ; and her tone was now 


140 


1 OLANDE. 


rather one of appeal. “ But don’t you see wliat life on board 
this boat is? It is all in the open. You can not expect any 
girl to be confidential when you have scarcely ever a chance 
of talking to her by herself. You must make allowances, 
Archie. I do know what you mean but — but I don’t 
think you are right; and I, for one, am very glad to see her 
so light-hearted. You may depend on it, she hasn’t sacrificed 
any one else in order to accept you. Her cheerfulness 
promises very well for the future — that is my idea of it ; 
it shows that she is not thinking of somebody else, as girls 
sometimes do, even after they are engaged. Of course it isn’t 
the girl’s place to declare her sentiments ; and it does happen 
sometimes that there is some one they would rather have 
had speak ; and of course there is an occasional backward 
glance, even after marriage. In Yolande’s case I don’t 
think there is. One cannot be certain ; but I don’t think 
there is. And why should you be disappointed because she 
does not too openly show her preference ? Of course she 
can’t — in this sort of life. But you will have the whole 
field to yourself. You have no rival; and she has a quickly 
grateful nature. You will have her all to yourself in the 
Highlands. Here she is waiting on her father half the time 
and the other half Jim is making fun with her. At Inves- 
troy it will be quite different.” 

“ Well, perhaps, I hope so.” said he. 

“ Of course it will ! You will have her all to yourself. 
Jim will be away at his fences and his pheasant coops, and 
I shall have plenty to do in the house. And if you want her 
to quarrel with you, I daresay she will oblige you. Most girls 
can manage that. But the first thing to be done, Archie — 
in sober seriousness — is to»bu.y a very nice engagement ring 
for her at Cairo ; and that will be always reminding hei-. 
And I do hope it will be a nice one, a very handsome one 
indeed. You ought not to consider expense on such an oc- 
casion. If you haven’t quite enough money with you, Jim 
will lend you some. It is certainly odd that she slioidd 
have no family jewelry ; but it is all the greater opportunity 
for you to give her something very pretty ; and you ought 
to show the Winterbournes, for your own sake, and for the 
sake of our family, that you can do the thing handsomely.” 

He laughed. 

“To hear you, Polly, one would think you were an old 
woman — a tiiorough schemer. And yet how long is it since 


YOLANDE. 141 

your chief deiight in life used to be to go tabogginiug 
down the face Beiulyerg? ” 

“ I have learned a little common-sense since then,” said 
pretty Airs. Graham, with a demure smile. 

Well, he did buy a very handsome ring for her when 
they got to Cairo ; and Yolande was greatly pleased with it, 
and said something very kind and pretty to him. Alore- 
over, there was a good deal of buying going on. The 
gentlemen at the Consulate had expressed the belief that 
they were in no immediate danger of having their throats 
cut ; and they set to work to r.ansack the bazars with a 
right good will. Nor was there any concealment of the 
intent of most of those purchases. Of course they bought 
trinkets and bric-a-brac, mostly for presentation to their 
friends ; and Air. Winterbourne insisted on Airs. Graham 
accepting from him a costly piece of Syrian embroidery on 
which she had set longing eyes during their previous visit. 
But the great mass of their purchases — at least of Air.. 
Winterbourne’s purchases — was clearly and obviously iimant 
for the, decoration of Yolande’s future home. Under Mrs. 
Graham’s guidance he bought all sorts of silk stuffs, em- 
broideries, and draperies. He had a huge case packed 
with hand-graven brasswork — squat, quaint candlesticks, 
large shields, cups, trays, and what not; and once, when in 
an old curiosity shop, and Yolande happening to be stand- 
ing outside. Airs. Graham ventured to remonstrate with 
him about the cost of some Rhodion dishes he had just said 
he would take, he answered her thus: — 

“ Aly dear Airs. Graham, when in Egypt we must do as 
the Egyptians do. Don’t you remember the bride who 
came down to the river bringing with her her bales of 
carpets and her drove of donkeys? Yolande must have 
her plenishing — that is a good Scotch word is it not ? ” 

“ But I should think she must have about a dozen of 
those shieks’ headdresses already,” said pretty Airs. 
Graham. “ And we don’t really have so many fancy-dress 
balls in Inverness. Besides, she could not go as a sheik.” 

“Fancy-dress balls? Oh no; nothing of the kind. 
They will do for a dozen things in a rogm — to be pitched 
on to sofas or on the backs of chair — merely patches of fine 
color.” 

“ And that,” said she, with a smile, looking at an antique 
Persian dagger with- an exquisitely carved handle and 


142 


YOLANDE. 


elaborately inlaid sheath — “of what use will that be in the 
Highlands?” 

“ My dear madam,” said he, with a perfectly grave face, 
“ I have not listened to your husband and your brother 
for nothing. Is it not necessary to have something with 
which to gralloch a wounded stag ? ” 

“ To gralloch a stag with a beautiful thing like that ! ” 
she exclaimed in horror. 

“ And if it is too good for that, can not Yolande use it 
as a paper-knife? You don’t mean to say that when you 
and your husband came home from India you brought back 
no curiosities with you ? ” 

“ Of course we did, and long before that Jim had a 
whole lot of things from the Summer Palace at Pekin ; but 
then we are old people. These things are too expensive 
for young people just beginning.” 

“ The bride must have her plenishing,” said he, briefly ; 
and then he began to bargain for a number of exceedingly 
beaijji^iful Damascus tiles, which he thought would just 
about be sufiicient for the construction of a fireplace. 

Nor were these people the least bit ashamed when, some 
days after this, they managed to smuggle their valuable 
cases on board the homeward-bound steamer without pay- 
ing the customs dues, Mr. Winterbourne declared that a 
nation which was so financially mad as to levy an eight per 
cent ad valorem duty on exports— or rather that a nation 
which was so mad as to tax exports at all — ought not to be 
there encouraged in its lunacy ; and he further consoled his 
conscience by reflecting that so far from his party having 
sj)oiled the Egyptians, it was doubtless all the other way ; 
and that probably some £60 or £70 of English money had 
been left in the Cairene bazars which had no right to be there 
However, he was content. The things were such things as 
he had wanted ; he had got them as cheaply as seemed 
possible ; he would have paid more for them had it been 
necessary. For, he said to himself, even the rooms of a 
Highland shooting-box might be made more picturesque 
and interesting by these art relics of other and former 
civilizations. He did not know what kind of home the 
Master of Lynn was likely to provide for his bride ; but 
good colors and good materials were appropriate anywhere; 
and even if Yolande and her husband were to succeed to 
the possession of Lynn Towers, and even if the rooms there 
(as he had heard was the case at Balmoral; were decorated 


YOLAJVDE. 


iia 

exclusively in Highland fashion, surely they could set aside 
some chamber for the reception of those draperies, and pot- 
teries, and tiles, and what not, that would remind Yolande 
of her visit to the East. The bride must have her plenish- 
ing, he said to himself again and again. But they bought 
no jewelry of a good kind in Cairo ; Mr. Winterbourne 
said he would rather trust Bond Street wares. 

And at last the big steamer slowly sailed away from 
the land, .and they had begun their homeward voyage. 
Mrs. Graham and her husband were on the hurricane-deck ; 
she was leaning with both arms on the rail. 

“ Good-by, Egypt,” said she, as she regarded the pale 
yellow country under the pale turquoise sk^y. “You have 
been very kind to me. You have made me a most charm- 
ing present to take back with me to the Highlands.” 

“ Wh*t, then ? ” said her husband. 

“ A sister.” 

“ She isn’t your sister yet,” he said, gruffly. 

“She is; and she will be,” she answered, confidently 
“ Do you know, Jim, I had my hopes and wishes all the 
way out, but I could never be sure, for Archie is not e.asily 
caught. And I don’t think she distinguished him much 
from the others on the voyage here, except in so far as he 
was one of our party. Sometimes I gave it up, to teli you 
the truth. And then again it seemed so desirable in every 
way, for I had got to like the girl myself, and I could see 
that Archie would be safe with her ; and I could see very 
well, too, that Mr. Winterbourne had his eyes open, and 
that he seemed very well disposed toward it.” 

“ You must have been watching everybody like a cat, ” 
her husband said, in not too complimentary fashion. 

“ Can you wonder that I was interested ? ” she said, in 
protest. “Just fancy what it would be for us if ho had 
brought some horrid insufferable creature to Lynn ! I 
wouldn’t have gone near the place ; and we have little 
enough society as it is. But that life on the Nile did it ; 
and I knew it would the moment the dahabeeyah had started 
away from Asyout — being all by ourselves like that, and ho 
paying her little attentions all day long, lie couldn’t help 
doing that, could he ? — it wouldn’t have been civil. And I 
foresaw what the end would be ; and I am very glad of it, 
and quite grateful to Egypt and the Nile, despite all the 
flies and e mosquitoes.” 


yOLAiVDE. 


i4i 

I dare say it will turn out all right,” her husband said, 
indifferently. 

‘‘Well, you don’t seem very delighted,” she exclaimed. 
“ Is that all you have to say? Don’t you think it is a very 
good thing?” 

“Well, yes, 1 do think it is a good thing. I have no 
doubt they will get on very well together. And in other 
respects the match will be an advantageous one.” 

“That is rather cold approval,” said she, somewhat dis- 
appointed. 

“ Oh no, it isn’t,” said he, and he turned from looking at 
the retreating land, and regarded her. “I say I don’t think 
he could have chosen better, and 1 believe they will be 
happy enough ; and they ought to be comfortable and well 
off. Isn’t that sufficient? He seems fond of her; I think 
they will lead a very comfortable life. What more ? ” 

“ But there is something behind what you say, Jim ; I 
know there is,” she said. 

“ And if there is, it is nothing very serious,” said ho ; 
and then he added, with a curious sort of smile: “I tell 
you I think it will come out all right ; I am sure it will. 
But you can’t deny this, Polly — well, I don’t know how to 
put it. I may be mistaken. I haven’t as sharp eyes as 
yours. But I have a fancy that this marriage, though I 
I have no doubt it will bo a ha])py enough one, will be, on 
her side at least — ” 

“ What, then ? ” said his wife, peremptorily. 

“ I don’t quite know whether the French have a phrase 
for it,” said he, evasively, but still with the same odd smile 
on his face. “ Probably they have ; they ought to have, at 
least. At any rate, I have a kind of fancy — now it’s noth- 
ing very terrible — I say I have a dim kind of fancy that, on 
her side, the marriage will be something that might be 
sailed a marriage de complaisance. Oh, you needn’t go 
away in a temper ! There have been worse marriages than 
a marriage de complaisance.^' 


YOLANDE, 


145 


CHAPTER XIX. 

AMONG THE CLOUDS. 

Fa.k up in the wild and lonely hills that form the back- 
bone as it w^ere, of eastern Inverness-shire, in the deserl 
solitudes where the Findhorn and the Foyei-s first begin tc 
draw their waters from a thousand mystic named or name- 
less rills, stands the lodge of Allt-riam-Ba. The plain little 
double-gabled building, with its de])endence of kennels, 
stables, coaclihouse, and keeper’s bothy, occupies a })ro- 
inontory formed by the confluence of two brawling streams, 
and faces a long, wide, beautiful valley, which terminates 
in the winding waters of a loch. It is the only sign of habi- 
tation in the strangely silent district, and it is the last. 
The rough hill-road leading to it terminates there. From 
that small plateau divergent corries — softly wooded most 
of them are, with waterfalls half hidden by birch and rowan 
trees — stretch up still further into a sterile wilderness of 
moor and lochan and bare mountain-top, the haunt of the 
ptarmigan, the red deer, and the eagle ; and the only sound 
to be heard in these voiceless altitudes is the monotonous 
murmur of the various burns — the White Winding Water, 
the Dun Water, the Stream of the Red Lochan, the Stream 
of the Fairies, the Stream of the Corrie of the Horses, as 
they are called in the Gaelic. 

At the door of this solitary little lodge, on a morning 
toward the end of July, Yolande Winterbourne was stand- 
ing, engaged in buttoning on her driving gloves, but oc- 
casionally glancing out at the bewildering, cliangeful, 
flashing, and gleaming day around her. For, indeed, since 
she had come to live at Allt-nam-.Ba she had acquired the 
conviction that the place seemed very close up to the sky, 
and that this broad valley, walled in by those great and 
silent hills, formed a sort of cauldron, in which the elements 
were in the habit of mixing up weather for transference, 
to the wide world beyond. At this very moment, for ex- 
ample, a continual pliantasmagoria of cloud effects was pass- 
ing before her eyes. Far mountain-tops grew blacker and 
blacker in shadow ; then the gray mist of the rain stole slowly 


146 


YOLAADE. 


across and liid them from view ; then tliey re-nppeared 
again, and a sudden shaft of sunlight would strike on the 
yellow-green slopes and on the boulders of Avet and glitter- 
iiig granite. But she had this one consolation — that the 
j)rospect in front of the lodge was much more ]*e-assuring 
than that behind. Behind — over the mountainous ranges 
of the moor — the clouds were banking up in a heavy and 
thunderous purple; and in the ominous silence the streams 
coming down from the corries sounded loud ; whereas, 
away before her, the valley that led down to the haunts of 
men was for the most part flooded with brilliant sunlight^ 
and the wide-swept loch was of tlie darkest and Keenest 
blue. Altogether there was more life and motion here — 
more color and brlliancy and change — than in the pale and 
placid Egyptian landscape she had grown accustomed to ; 
but there was also — she might have been pardoned for 
thinking — for one who was about to drive fourteen miles 
in a dog-cart, a little more anxiety, and she had already re- 
solved to take her waterproof with her. 

However, she was not much dismayed. She had lived 
in this weather-brewing cauldron of a place for some little 
time, and had grown familiar with its threatening glooms, 
which generally came to nothing, and with its sudden mid 
dazzling glories, which laughed out a welcome to tlie lonely 
P traveller in the most surprising fashion. When the dog- 
cart — a four-wheeled vehicle — was brought round, she 
stepped into it lightly, and took the reins as if to the man- 
ner born, though she had never handled a Avhip until Mrs. 
Graham had put her in training at Inverstroy. Then there 
was a strict charge to Jane to see that brisk fires weie kept 
burning in all the rooms ; for although it was still July the 
air of these alpine solitudes was sometimes somewhat keen 
And then — the youthful and fair-haired Sandy having got 
up behind — she released the brake ; and presently they 
were making their way, slowly and cautiously at first, doAvn 
the stony path, and over the loud sounding wooden bridge 
that here spans the roaring red-brown Avaters of the Allt- 
cam-Ban. 

But Avhen once they AAmre over the bridge and into the 
road leading down the Avide strath, they quickly mended 
their pace. There Avas an unusual eagerness and bright- 
ness in lier look. Sandy the groom knew’ that the stout 
and serviceable cob in the shafts Avas a sure-footed beast ; 
but the road w’as of the roughest; and he could not under- 


YOLANDE. 


147 


Bland why the young Englisli lady, who was generally very 
cautious, should drive so fast. Was it to get away from 
the black thunder masses of cloud that lay over the moun- 
tain behind them ? Here, at least, there seemed no danger 
of any storm. The sunlight was'brilliant on the wide green 
pastures and on the flashing waters of the stream ; and the 
steep and sterile hillsides were shining now ; and the loch 
far ahead of them had its wind-rippled surface of a blue 
like the heart of a sapphire. Yolande’s face soon showed 
the influence of the warm sunlight and of the fresh keen 
air; and her eyes were glad, though they seemed busy 
with other things. Indeed, there was scarcely any sign of 
life around to attract her attention. The sheep on the vast 
slopes, where there was but a scanty ])asturage among the 
blocks of granite, were as small gray specks ; an eagle 
slowly circling on motionless wing over the furthest moun- 
tain range, looked no bigger than a hawk ; some young 
falcons, whose cry sounded just overhead among the crags, 
were invisible. But perhaps she did not heed these things 
much. She seemed preoccupied, and yet happy and light- 
hearted. 

When, in due course of time, they reached the end of 
the valley, and got on to the road that wound along the 
wooded shores of the loch, there was much easier going, 
and Sandy dismissed his fears. It was a pretty loch, this 
stretch of wind-stirred blue water, for the hills surrounding 
it were somewhat less sterile than those at Allt-nam-Ba ; 
here and there the banks were fringed with hazel ; and at 
the lower end of it, where the river flowing from it wound 
through a picturesque ravine, were the dark green planta- 
tions surrounding Lynn Towers. They had driven for 
about a mile and a half or so by the shores of the lake, when 
Yolande fancied she heard some clanking noise proceeding 
from the other side ; and thereupon she instantly asked 
Sandy what that could be, for any sound save the bleating 
of sheep or the croak of a raven was an unusual thing here. 
The young Highland lad strained his eyes in the direction 
of the distant hillside, and at last he said, — 

“ Oh yes, I see them now. They will be the men taking 
up more fencing to the forest. Duncan was sj>eaking about 
that, madam.” 

(For he was a polite youth, as far as his English went.) 

“ I can’t see anything, Sandy,” said the young lady. 

“ If Miss Winterbourne would be looking about half- 


148 


YOLANDR. 


way up the hill — they are by the side of the gray corrie 
now/’ 

Tlien he added, after a second, — 

“ 1 am thinking that will be the Master at the top.” 

“ Do you mean the Master of Lynn ? ” she said quickly. 

“ Yes, madam.” 

“ Well, your eyes are sharper than mine, Sandy. I can 
see that black speck on the sky-line, but that is all.” 

“ He is waving a handkercliief now,” said Sandy with 
much coolness. 

“ Ob, that is impossible. How could he make us out at 
this distance ? ” 

“ The Master will know there is no other cajcriagc than 
this one coming from Allt-nam-Ba.” 

“ Very well, then,” said she taking out her handkerchief 
and giving it a little shake or two in the sunlight. “ I will 
take the chance ; but you know, Sandy, it is more likely to 
be one of the keepers waving his hand to you.” 

“ Oh no, madam; it is the Master himself; I am sure of 
it. He was up at the bothy yesterday evening to see Dun- 
can about the gillies, and he was saying something about 
the new fence above the loch.” 

“ Was Mr. Leslie at Allt-nam-Ba last night?” said she 
in sur])rise. 

“ Oh yes, madam.” 

“ And he left no message for me ? ” 

“ I think there was not any message. But he was ask- 
ing when Miss Winterbourne’s father was coming and I 
told him that I was to drive Miss Winterbourne into 
Foyers this morning.” 

“ Oh, that’s all right,” she said, with much content. 

By this time they had reached the lower end of the lake ; 
and when they had crossed tlie wooden bridge over the 
river and ascended a bit of a hill, they found themselves 
opposite Lynn Towers — a large, modern building, whicli, 
with its numerous conservatories, stood on a level piece of 
ground on the other side of the ravine. Then on again ; 
and in time they beheld stretching out before them a wide 
and variegated plain, looking rich and fertile and cultivated 
after the mountainous solitudes they had left behind, while 
all around them were hanging woods, with open slopes of 
pasture, and rills running down to the river in the valley 
beneath. As they drove on and down into that smiling 
tuid shining country, the day grew more and more brilliant. 


YOLAXDE. 


149 


The breaks of blue in tlie sky grew broader, the silver gloam- 
ing clouds went slowly by to tlie east, and the air, wliicb 
was miicli warmer down here, was ])erfumed with the deli- 
cate resinous odor of the sweet-gale. Wild flowei’S grew 
more luxuriantly. Here and there a farmhouse appeared, 
with fields of grain encroaching on the moorland. And at 
last, after some miles of this gradual descent, Yolande ar 
rived at a little sprinkling of houses sufficient in number 
— though much scattered among the fields — to be called 
a village, and drew up at the small wooden gate of a modest 
little mansion, very prettily situated in the midst of a 
garden of roses, columbine, nasturtiums, and other cottage 
favorites. 

No sooner had the carriage stopped than instantly the 
door was opened by* a smiling and comely dame, with sil- 
ver-gray hair, and pleasant, shrewd gray eyes, who came 
down the garden path. She was neatly and plainly dressed 
in a housekeeper-looking kind of costume, but her face was 
refined and intelligent, and there was a sort of raotherli- 
ness, in the look wdth which she regarded the young En- 
glish lady. 

“ Do you know that I meant to scold you, Mrs Bell, for 
robbing your garden again ? ” said Yolande. “ But this 
time — no — I am not going to scold you; I can only thank 
you ; for my papa is coming to-day ; and oh, you should 
see how pretty the rooms are with the flowers you sent me ! 
But not again now — not any more destroying the garden.” 

“ Dear me, and is your papa coming the day ? ” said the 
elderly woman in a slow, persuasive, gentle, south-country 
sort of fashion. 

“ I am going now to meet him at the steamer,” said 
Yolande quickly. “ That is why — ” 

“ Weil, now,” said Mrs. Bell, “ that is just a most ex- 
traordinary piece of good luck ; for I happen to have a pair 
of the finest and plumpest young ducklings that ever I set 
eyes on.” 

“ No, no ; no, no, no,” Yolande cried, laughing ; “ 1 can- 
not have any more excuses for these kindnesses and kind 
nesses. Every day since I came here — every day a fresh 
excuse — and always the boy coming with Mrs. Bell’s com 
piimeiits — ” 

“ Dinna ye think I know perfectly well,” saTd the other, 
in a tone of half-indignant remonstrance “ what it is for 2 
young leddy to be trying housekeeping in a place like yon ^ 


150 


YOLANDE, 


So there’s not to be another word about it. Ye’ll jist stop 
for a minute as ye’re going back, and take the ducklings wi* 
ye ; ay, and I’ve got a nice bunch or two o’ fresh-cut lettuce 
for ye, and a few carrots and turnips — I declare it’s a 
shame to see the things wasting in the gairden, for we canna 
use the half of them.” 

“Wouldn’t it be simpler for you to give me the garden 
and the house and everything all at once?” said Yolando 
“ Well, now, I wish to see Mr. Melville.” 

“ Ye canna do that,” was the prompt reply. 

“Why?” said the girl, with something of a stare, for 
she had not been in the habit of having her requests refused 
up in this part of the world. 

“ He is at his work,” said the elderly dame, glancing at 
a small building that stood at right angles with the house. 
“ Do ye think 1 would disturb him when he is at his work? 
Do ye think I want him to send me about my business ? ” 

“There is a tyrant!” exclaimed Yolande. “Never 
mind, then j I wanted to thank him for sending me the 
trout. Now I will not. Well, good-by, Mrs. Bell. I will 
take the vegetables, and be very gi'ateful to you, but not 
the ducklings.” 

“Ye’ll just take the ducklings, as I say, like a sensible 
young leddy,” said Mrs. Boll, with emphasis ; “ and there 
k not to be another word about it,” 

So on she drove again, on this bright and beautiful July 
day, through a picturesque and rocky and rugged country, 
until in time she reached the end of her journey — the charm- 
ing little hotel that is perched high amid the Vioods over- 
looking Loch Ness, within sound of the thundering Foyers 
Water. And as she had hurried mainly to give the cob a 
long mid-day rest — the steamer not being duo till the 
afternoon— she now found herself with some hours’ leisure 
at her disposal, which she spent in idly wandering through 
the umbrageous woods, startling many a half-tame pheasant, 
but never coming on the real obje(‘.t of her quest, a roe-deer. 
And then, at last, she heard the throbbing of paddle-wheels 
in the intense silence, and just about as quick as any roe- 
deer she made her way down through the bracken and the 
bushes, and went right out to the end of the little pier. 

She made him out at once, even at that distance ; for 
though he was not a tall man, his sharp-featured, sun- 
reddened face and silver-white hair made him easily reo- 
»gnizable. And of course she was greatly delighted when 


YOLANDE, 


151 


he came ashore, and excited too ; and she herself would 
have carried gun-cases, fishing-baskets, and what not to the 
dog-cart, had not the boots from the hotel interfered. And 
she had a hundred eager questions and assurances, but 
would pay no heed to his remonstrance about the risk of 
her driving. 

“ Why, papa, I drove every day at Inverstroy ! ” slie 
exclaimed, as they briskly set out for Allt-nam-Ba. 

“I suppose the Grahams were very kind to you?” he 
said. 

“ Oh, yes, yes, yes.” 

“ And the Master, how is he ? ” 

“ Oh, very well, I believe. Of course I have not seen 
him since Mrs. Graham left. But he has made all the ar- 
rangments for you — ponies, panniers, everything quite 
arranged. And he left the rifie at the bothy ; and I have 
the cartridges all right from Inverness — oh yes, you will 
find everything prepared ; and there is no want of provision, 
for Mr. Melville sends me plenty of trout, and Duncan goes 
up the hill now and again for a hare, and they are sending 
me a sheep from the farm — ” 

“ A sheep ! ” 

“ Duncan said it was the best way, to have a sheep 
killed. And we have new-laid eggs and fresh milk every 
day. And every one is so kind and attentive, papa, that 
whatever turns out wrong, that will be my fault in not ar- 
ranging properly — ” ^ 

“ Oh, that will be all right,” said he, good-humoredly. 
“I want to hear about yourself, Yolaiide. What do you 
think of Lord Lynn and his sister, now that you have seen 
something more of them ? ” 

This question checked her volubility, and for a second 
a very odd expression came over her face. 

“ They are very serious people, papa,” said she with 
some caution. “ And — and very pious, I think.” 

“ But I suppose you are as pious as they can be ? ” her 
father* said. “ That is no objection.” 

She was silent. 

“ And those other people — the old woman who pretends 
to be a housekeeper, and is a sort of Good Fairy in disguise 
and the penniless young laird* who lias no land—” 

Instantly her face brightened up. 

“ Oh, he is the most extraordinary person, papa — a 
magician ! I can not describe it ; you must see for ydiir 


152 


YOLANDE. 


Belf ; but really it is wonderful. Tie has a stream to worlt 
for him — yes, for Mrs. Graham and I went and visited it — • 
climbing away up the hill — and there was the water-wheel 
at work in the water, and a hut close by, and there were 
copper wires to take the electricity away down to the 
house, where he has a store of it. It is a genie for him ; 
he makes it light the lamps in the house, in the schoolroom, 
and it makes electrotype copies for him ; it works a lathe 
for turning wood — oh, I can’t tell you all about it. And 
he has been so kind to me ! but mostly in secret, so that 
I could not catch him to thank him. How could I know ? 

I complain to Mrs. Bell that it is a trouble to send to 
Inverness for some one to set the cldck going: the next 
morning — it is all right! It goes; notliing wrong at all I 
Then the broken window in the drawing-room : Mrs. 
Graham and I drive away to Fort Augustus; when I come 
back in the evening there is a new pane put in. Then the 
filter in the water-tank up the hill — ” 

“ But what on earth is this wonderful Jack-of all 
trades doing here? Why, you yourself wrote to me, 
Yolande, that he had taken the Snell Exhibition and the 
Ferguson Scholarship, and blazed like a comet through 
Balliol ; and now 1 find him tinkering at window-panes.” 

She laughed, 

“ I think he works very hard : he says he is very lazy. 
He is very fond of fishing, he is not well olf, and hero he 
is permitted to fish in the L^es far away among the hills 
that few people will take the trouble to go to. Then 
naturally he has much interest in this neighborhood, where 
once his people were the great family ; and those living 
here have a great resj)ect for him ; and he has built a 
school, and teaches in it — it is a free school, no charge at 
all,” Yolande, added, hastily. “ That is Mrs. Bell’s kindness, 
the building of the school. Then he makes experiments 
and discoveries : is it not enough of an occupation when 
every one is talking about the electric light? Also he is a 
great botanist; and when it is not schooltime he is away 
up in the hills after rare plants, or to fish. Oh, it is terrible 
the loneliness of the small lakes up in the hills, Mr. Leslie 
has told me ; no road, no track, no life anywhere. And the 
long hourS' of climbing : oh, 'I am sure I have been sorry 
sometimes — many times — when day after day I receive a 
present of trout and a message, to think of the long climb' 
ing and the labor — ” 


VOLANDE. 


158 


“ But why doesn’t he fish in the loch at All-nam-Ba?” 
her father exclaimed. “That can’t be so difficult to prct 
at.” 

“ lie had permission last year,” said she. 

“ Why not this ?” 

“ He thought it would be more correct to wait for you 
to give permission.” 

“ Well, now, Yolande, ’’said he, peevishly, “how could 
you be so stupid ?IIere is a fellow who shows you all soils 
of kindnesses, and you haven’t enough common-sense to 
offer him a day’s fishing in the loch !” 

“It was not my affair,” she said, cheerfully. “ That 
was for you to arrange.” 

“ Waiting for permission to fish in a loch like that!” 
her fathers said, more good-naturedly, for indeed his discon- 
tent with Yolande rarely lasted for more than about the 
fifteenth part of a second. “ Leslie told me the loch would 
be infinitely improved if five-sixths of the fish were netted 
out of it ; the trout -would run to abetter size. However, 
Miss Yolande, since you’ve treated him badly, you must 
make amends. You must ask him to dinner.” 

“ Oh yes, papa, 1 shall be glad to do that,” she said, 
blithely. 

“ If the house is anywhere near the road, we can pick 
him up as we go along. Then I suppose you could send a 
message to the Master ; he is not likely to have an engage- 
ment.” 

“ But you don’t mean for to-night,” she said, in amaze- 
ment. 

“ I do, indeed. Why not?” 

“ What I the first night that we have to ourselves to- 
gether, to think of inviting strangers ? ” 

“ Strangers ? ” he repeated. “ That is an odd phrase to 
be used by a young lady who wears an engaged ring.” 

“ But I am not married, yet, papa,” said she, flushing 
slightly. “ I am only engaged. When I an a wife, it may 
be tlifierent; but at present I am your daughter.” 

“ And you would rather that we had this first evening 
all by ourselves ? ” 

“It is not a wish papa,” said she, coolly; “it is a down 
right certainty. There is only dinner for two, and there 
will be only dinner for two, and these two are you and I, 
Do you forget that I am mistress of the house? ” 

Well, he seemed nothing loath; the prospect did not at 


164 


YOLANDE. 


all overcloud his face, as they drove away through thii 
smiling and cheerful and picturesque country, with the 
sevei’er altitude beyond gradually coining into view. 

The same night Yolaude and her father set out for an 
arm-in-arm stroll away down the broad silent valley. It 
was late ; but still there was a bewilderment of liglit all 
around them, for in the northwestern heavens the wan 
twilight still lingered, while behind them, in the southeast, 
the moon had risen, and now projected their shadows before 
them as they walked. Yolande was talkative and joyous— 
the silence and the loneliness of the place did not seem to 
oppress her ; and he was always a contented listener. They 
walked away along the strath, under the vast solitude of 
the hills, and by the side of this winding and murmuring 
stream, and in time they reached the loch. For a wonder 
it was perfectly still. The surface was like glass, and those 
portions that were in shadow w^ere black as jet. But these 
were not many, for the moonlight was shining adown this 
wide space, touching softly the overlianging crags and the 
woods, and showing them, as they got on still further, above 
the loch and the bridge and the river, and standing silent 
amid the silent plantations, the pale white walls of Lynn. 

“ And so you think, Yolande,” said he, “ that you will 
be quite happy in living in this solitary place?” 

“ If you were always to be away — oh no ; but with you 
coming to see me sometimes, as now — oh, yes yes : why 
not ? ” said she, cheerfulfy. 

“You wouldn’t mind being cut oH from the rest of the 
world ? ” he said. 

“ I ? ” she said. “ What is it to me ? I know so few 
people elsewliere.” 

“ It would be a peaceful life, Yolande,” said he, 
thoughtfully. “ Would it not ? ” 

“ Oh yes,” she answered, brightly. “ And then, papa, 
you would take Allt-nam-Ba for the whole year, every year, 
and not merely have a few weeks’ shooting the autumn. 
Why should it not be a pleasant place to live in ? Could 
anything be more beautiful than to-night — and the solitude ? 
And one or two of the people are so kind. But this I must 
tell you, papa, that the one who has been kindest to me 
here is not Lord Lynn, nor his sister, Mrs. Colquhoun, nor 
any one of them, but Mrs. Bell ; and the first chance, 
when she is sure not to meet Mr. Melville, or Mr. Leslie — 
for she is very particular about that, and pretends only to 


POLAND Ft, 


15oi 


be a housekeeper — I am going to bring lier up to Allt-nam- 
Ba ; and you w'ill see how charming she is, and how good 
and wise and gentle, and how proud she is of Mr. Melville. 
As for him, he laughs at her. He laughs at every one. 
He has no respect for any one more than another ; he talks 
to Lord Lynn as he talks to Duncan — perhaps with more 
kindness to Duncan, llich or poor, it is no difference — no, 
he does not seem to understand that there is a difference, j 
And all the people/ the shepherds, the gillies, and Mrs. 
Macdougal at the farm — every one thinks there is no one 
like him. Perhaps I have learned a little from him, even 
in so short a time ; it may be. I do not care that Mrs. 
Bell has been a cook ; that is nothing to me ; 'I see that she 
is a good woman, and clever, and kind ; and I will bo her 
friend if she pleases ; and I i^now that he gives her more 
honor than to any one else, though he does not say much. 
No, he is too sarcastic ; and not very courteous. Some- 
times ho is almost rude; but he is a little more considerate 
with old people — ” 

“Look here, Yolande,” her father said, with a lauglu 
“ All this afternoon, and all this evening, and all down this 
valley, you have done nothing but talk about this wonder- 
ful Mr. Melville, although you say you have scarcely ever 
seen him.” 

“ No, no, no, pjtpa. I said, when he had done any kind- 
ness to mo, he had kept out of the way, and I had no chance 
to thank him.” 

“ Very well : all your talking has produced nothing but 
a jumble. I want to see this laird without land, this 
Balliol clockraaker, this fisherman schoolmaster, this idol 
who is worshipped by the natives. Let me see what he is 
like, first of all. Ask him to dinner, and the Master too. 
We have few neighbors, and we must make the most of 
them. So now let us get back home again, child ; though 
it is almost a shamg to go indoors on such a night. And 
you don’t really think you would regret being shut off 
from the world, Yolande, in this solitude?” 

She was looking along the still logh, and the wooded 
shores, and the moonlit crags that were mirrored in the 
glassy water ; and her eyes were happy enough. 

“ Is it not like fairyland, papa ? How could one regret 
living in such a beautiful place ? Besides,” she adde<l, 
cheerfully, “have I not promised ? ” And therewith she 


^56 


YOLANDE, 


hold out her ungloved hand for a second ; and be under* 
Btood what she meant ; for he saw the three diamonds on 
her engagement ring clear in the moonlight. 


CHAPTER XX. 

“Melville’s welcome home.” 

Amid all the hurry and bustle of preparing for the 
Twelfth, Yolande and her affairs seemed half forgotten ; and 
she, for one, was glad to forget them ; for she rejoiced in 
the activity of the moment, and was proud to see that tlie 
wheels of the little household worked very smoothly. And 
long ago she had mastered all tlie details about the luncheon 
to be sent up the hill, and the dinner for the gillies, and what 
i^ot ; she bad got her instructions from Mrs. Graham at In- 
verstroy. 

In the midst of all this, however, the Master of Lynn 
wrote the following note to his sister : 

“ Lyxx Towers, August , 8. 

“ Dear Polly, — I wish to goodness you would come 
over here for a couple of days and put matters straight. I 
am helpless. I go for a little quiet to Allt-nam-Ba. I would 
ask Jack Melville to interfere, but he is so blunt tongued he 
would most likely make the row worse. Of course it’s all 
Tabby : if ever I succeed to Lynn, won’t I make the old 
cat skip out of that 1 I exj)ected my father to be cross when 
I suggested something about Yolande, but I thought he 
would see the reasonableness, etc. But Tabby heard of it, 
and then it was all ‘alliance with demagogues,’ ‘ disgrace 
t)f an ancient family,’ ‘the Leslies selling their honor for 
money, and other rubbish, I don’t mind. It doesn’t hurt 
me. I have »ot knocked about witli Jack Melville for 
nothing ; I can distinguish between missiles that ai‘C made 
of air, and pass by you, and missiles that are made of wood, 
and can cut }'Our liead oj)en. But tlie immediate thing is 
this : they won’t call on tlu* Winterhoui-nes, and this is not 
only a gross discourtesy, but very impolitic. I should not 
at all wonder, if Mr. Winterbourne has a good season thia 


yolande. 


157 


year, if lie were to take a lease of AlIt-iiain-Ba ; and Duncan 
is reckoning on 1200 brace. As a good tenant my father 
oiiglit to call on Mr. Winterbourne, if for nothing else. 
And of course matters can not remain as they are. "There 
must be an explanation. Wliat I am dreadfully afraid of 
is that Yolande may meet Tabby some day, and that Tabby 
may say something. At present they have only met driving 
— I mean since you left — so that was only a case of bowing. 
To hear Tabby talk would make you laugh ; but it makes 
me rather wild, I confess ; and though my father says less,' 
or nothing at all, I can see that what she says is making him 
more and more determined. So do come along, and bring 
some common-sense into the atmosphere of the house. What 
on earth has politics got to do with Yolande? Come and 
fight it out with Tabby: 

“ Your affectionate brother, 

“ A Leslie.” 


This was the answer that arrived on the evening of the 
next day : 

“ Inveestuoy, August 0. 

“Dear Archie, — You mnst.have gone mad. We have 
visitors in the house already, and by the day after to-morrow 
we shall be full to the hall door. It is quite absurd ; Jim 
has not asked a single bachelor this year, and every man 
who is coming is bringing his wife. Did you ever hear of 
such a thing? — really 1 can’t understand why women should 
be such fools : not a single invitation refused! But there 
is one thing — they %o ill get a good dose of grouse talk before 
they go and if they are not lieartily sick of liearing 

about stags it will be a_wonder. So you see, my dear Mas- 
ter, you must worry out of that muddle in your own way ; 
and I have no doubt you got into it through temper, and 
being uncivil to Aunt Colquhoun. It is impossible for me 
to leave Inverstroy at present. But wliatever you do 
don’t get spiteful, and go and ruii away witli Shena Van. 

“ Your affectionate sister, 

“ Polly.” 

Well, it was not until the eve of the Twelfth that Yo- 
lande gave her first dinner-party, the delay having chiefly 
been occasioned by their having to wait for some wine from 
Inverness. This was a great concession on the part of her 
father ; but when he discovered that she was desperately 


158 


VOLAA D£. 


afraid that her two guests, the Master of Lynn and Mr. 
Melville, would imagine that the absence of wine from the 
table was due to her negligence and stupidity as a house- 
keeper, he yielded at once. Nay, in case they might throw 
any blame on her of any kind, her father himself wrote to 
a firm in Inverness, laying strict injunctions on them as to 
brands and so forth. All of which trouble was quite thrown 
away, as it turned out, for both the young men seemed quite 
indifferent about drinking anything; but the wine was 
there and Yolande could not be blamed : that was his chief 
and only consideration. 

Just before dinner Mr. Winterbourne, Yolande, and the 
Master were standing outside the lodge, looking down the 
wide glen, which was now flooded with sunset light. Young 
Leslie’s eyes were the eyes of a deer-stalker ; the slightest 
movement anywhere instantly attracted them ; and when 
two sheep — little dots they were, at the far edge of the hill 
just above the lodge — suddenly ceased grazing and lifted 
their heads, he knew tliere must be some one there. The 
next moment a figure appeared on the sky-line. 

“ I suppose that is Jack Melville,” he said, peevishly. 
“ I wish he wouldn’t come across the forest when he is up 
at his electric boxes.” 

“ But does he do harm?” said Yolande. “He cannot 
shoot deer with copper wire.” 

“ Oh, he’s all over the place,” said the Master of Lynn. 
“And there isn’t a keeper or a watcher who will remon- 
strate with him, and of course I can’t. He’s always after 
his botany, or his fishing, or something. The best thing 
about it is that he is a capital hand to have with you if 
there are any stray deer about,* and you want to have a shot 
without disturbing the herd. He knows their ways most 
wonderfully, and can tell you the track they are certain to 
take.” 

Meanwhile the object of these remarks was coming 
down the hillside at a swinging pace, and very soon he had 
crossed the little bridge, and was coming up the path, her- 
alding his arrival with a frank and careless greeting to his 
friends. He was a rather tall, lean, large-boned, and pow- 
erful-looking man of about eight and twenty ; somewhat 
pale in face, seeing that he lived so much out of doors ; his 
hair a raven black : his eyes gray, penetrating, and stead- 
fast; his mouth firm and yet mobile and expressive at 
times ; his forehead square rather than lofty ; his voice, a 


YOLANDE. 


ir>o 

chest voice, was heard in pleasant and well-modulated En- 
glish : lie had not acquired any trace of the high falsetto 
tliat prevails (or prevailed a few years ago) a'rnong tlie 
young men at Oxford. As for his manner, that was char- 
acterized chiefly by a curious simplicity and straightfor- 
wardness. He seemed to have no time to be self-conscious. 
When he spoke to any one, it was without thought or heed 
of any bystander. With that one person he had to do. 
Him or her he seized, with look and voice; and even after 
the most formal introduction he would s})eak to you in the 
most simple and direct way, as if life were not long enough 
to be wasted in conventionalities, as if truth w'ei'e the main 
thing, as if all human beings were perfectly alike, and as if 
there was no reason in the world why this new stranger 
should not be put on the footing of a friend. If he had an 
affectation, it was to represent himself as a lazy and indo- 
lent person, who believed in nothing, and laughed at every- 
thing, wdiereas he was extremely industrious and imdefa- 
tigable, while there were certainly two or three things that 
be believed in — more, perhaps, than he would confess. 

“ Here, Miss Winterbourne,” said he, “is the little vas- 
culuni I spoke to you about ; it has seen some service, but 
it may do well enough. And here is Bentley’s Manual^ 
and a Flora. The Flora is an old one ; I brought an old 
one purposely, for at the beginning there is a synopsis of 
the Linnaean system of classification, and you will find that 
the easiest way of making out the name of a new plant. 
Of course,” he added, when he had put the vasculum and 
the books on the window-sill and come back, “ when you 
get further on, when you begin to see how all these plants 
have grown to be what they ai-e, when you come to study 
the likenesses and relationships — and unless you mean to 
go so far you are only wasting time to begin — you will 
follow Jussieu and De Candolle ; but in the meantime you 
will find the Linnman system a very dodgy instrument 
when you arc in a difliculty. Then, another thing — mind, 
1 am assuming that you mean business ; if you want to 
frivvle, and pick pretty posies, I shut my door on you, but, 
I say, if you mean business, I have told Mrs. Bell you 
are to have access to my herbarium, whether I’m there or 
not.” 

But here Yolande began to laugh. 

“ Oh yes, that is so probable ! ” said she. “ Mrs. Bell 


160 


YOLANDE. 


Mrs. Bell and I understand each other very well, 1 
assme you,” he said, gravely. “We are only two augurs, 
who wink at each other; or rather we shut our ejes to 
each other’s humbug.” 

“Why, Jack, she means to buyback Monaglen for 
you ! ” the Master of Lynn exclaimed. 

“ I know she has some romantic scheme of that sort in 
her head,” he said, frankly. “ It is quite absurd. What 
should I do with Monaglen ? However, in the meantime 
I have made pretty free use of the old lady’^ money at 
Gress ; and she is highly pleased, for she was fond of niy fa- 
ther’s family, and she likes to hear me spoken well of, and 
you can so easily purchase gratitude — especially with some- 
body else’s money. You see, it works well all round. Mrs 
Bell, who is an honest, shrewd, good, kindly woman, sees 
that her charity is administrated with some care ; the people 
around — but especially the children — are benefited ; 1 have 
leisure for any little experiments and my idle rambles ; and 
if Mrs. Bell and I hoodwink each other, it is done very 
openly, and there is no great harm.” 

“ She was very indignant,” said young Leslie, laughing, 
“ when you wouldn’t have your name put on the tablet in 
the schoolhouse.” 

“ What tablet ? ” said Yolande. 

“Oh a tablet saying that Mr. Melville had built the 
school and presented it to tlie people of Gress.” 

“ And I never contributed a farthing ! ” he said. “ She 
did the whole thing. Well, now, that shows how artificial 
the position is; and, necessarily, it won’t last. We liave 
for so long been hypocrites for the public good — let us say 
it was for the public good ; but there must come an eml,” 

“ Why, Jack, if you leave Gress you’ll fairly break the 
old dame’s heart. And as for the neighborhood — it will be 
like the going away of Aiken drum.” 

“ Who was that ? ” said Yolande. 

“ I am sure I don’t know. Mrs. Bell will sing the song 
for you, if you ask her ; she knows all those old things. I 
don’t know who the gentleman Avas, but they made a rare 
fuss about his going away. 

“ ‘ ’Bout him the carles were gabbiu’. 

The braw laddies sabbin’, 

And a’ the lassies greetin’. 

For that Aikendrum’s awa’.’ ” ' 


YOLAA^DE. 


IGl 

“The dinner is ready, madam,” said a soft-voiced and 
pretty Highland maid-servant, appearing at the door ; and 
Yolande’s heart sank within her. She summoned up her 
courage nevertheless ; she walked into the room sedately, 
a,nd took her place at the head of the table with much 
graciousness, though she was in reality very nervous and 
terribly anxious about the result of this wild experiment. 
Well, she need not have been anxious. The dinner was 
excellently cooked, and very fairly served. And if those 
two younger men seemed quite indifferent as to what they 
ate and drank, and much more interested in a discussion 
about certain educational matters, at least Mr. Winter- 
bourne noted and approved ; and greatly comforted was 
she from time to time to hear him say: “ Yolande, this is 
capital hare soup ; why can’t we get hare soup cooked in 
this way in the south?” Or, “Yolande, these are most 
delicious trout. Mr. Melville’s catching, I suppose ? It 
seems to me you have stumbled on an uncommonly gpod 
cook.” Or, “What? Another robbery of Mrs. Bell’s 
poultry yard? Well, they’re fine birds — noble, noble. We 
must send her some grouse to-morrow, Yolande.” 

And then outside tl-ere was a sudden and portentous 
growl of bass drones ; ‘and then the breaking away into the 
shrill clear music of a quickstep ; and through the blue 
windo\v-panes they could see in the dusk the tall, tightly 
built figure of young Duncan, the pipes over his shoulder, 
marching erect and proud up and down the gravel-path. 
That wms the proper way to hear the pipes — away up there 
in the silence of the hills, amid the gathering gloom of the 
night ; and now they w'ould groAv louder and shriller as he 
drew near, and now they would grow fainter and fainter 
as he passed by, wdule all around them, whether the music 
was faint or shrill, was the continuous hushed murmur of 
the mountain streams. • 

“I told Duncan,” said Yolande to the Master, “that 
it was a shame he should keep all his playing for the shep- 
herds in the bothy. And he told me that he very well 
knew the ‘ Hills of Lynn.” 

Young Leslie regarded her with an odd kind of smile. 

“ You don’t think that is the ‘ Hills of Lynn,’ do you, 
Y'olande?” 

“Is it not? I have heard very few.” 

“No; I am not first favorite to-night. It isn’t th« 
‘Hills of Lynn.’ That is ‘Melville’s Welcome Homo.’ ’* 


162 


YOLANDE. 


Yolande looked surprised, but not in any way guilty. 

“I assure you, Miss Winterbourne,” said Jack Melville, 
pleasantly enough, “ that I don’t feel at all hurt or insulted. 
I know Duncan means no sarcasm. He is quite well aware 
that we haven’t had a home to welcome us this many a day ; 
but he is not playing the quickstep out of irony. He and 
I are too old friends for that.” 

“ Oh, I am sure he does not mean anything like that,” 
said Yolande. “It is a great compliment he means, is it 
not ? ” 

Then coffee came ; and cigars and ])ipes were produced 
and as Yolande had no dread of tobacco smoke, tliey all 
remained together, drawing in their chairs to the brisk fire 
of wood and peat, and forming a very friendly, snug, and 
comfortable little circle. JSTor was their desultory chatting 
about educational projects solely ; nor, on the other hand 
was it confined to grouse and the chances of the weather , 
it rambled over many and diverse subjects, while always, 
from time to time, could be heard in the distance (for Dun- 
can had retired to regale his friends in the bothy) the faint 
echoes of “The Seventy-ninth’s Farewell to Gibraltar,” or 
“ Mackenzie’s Farewell to Sutherland,” or “ The Barren 
Rocks of Aden,” with occasionally the sad slow wail of a 
Lament — “ Lord Lo vat’s,” or “ Mackintosh’s,” or “ Mac 
Crimmon’s.” And as Mr. Melville proved to be a very 
ready talker (as he lay back there in an easy-chair, with 
the warm rays of the fire lighting up his fine intellectual 
features and clear and penetrating gray eyes), Mr. Winter- 
bourne had an abundant opportunity of studying this new 
friend; and so far from observing in him any of the brow- 
beating and brusqueness he had heard of, on the contrary, 
be discovered the most ample tolerance, and more than 
that, a sort of large-liearted humanity a sym])athy, a sincerity 
and directness of speech, that begun to explain to him why 
Mr. Melville of Gress was such a favorite with those people 
about there. He seemed to assume that the })erson he was 
talking to was Ins friend : and that it was useless to waste 
time in formalities of conversation. His manner toward 
Yolande (her fatlier thouglit) was characterized by just a 
little too much of indifference : but then he was a school 
master, and not in the habit of attaching importance to 
the opinions of young people. 

It was really a most enjoyable, confidential, pleasant 
evening ; but it had to come to an end ; and when the two 


YOLANDE. 


1G3 


young men left, both Yolande and her fathei accompanied 
them to the door. The moon was risen now, and the long 
wide glen looked beautiful enough. 

“Well, now, Mr Melville,” said Mr. Winterbourne, as 
they were going away, “ whenever you have an idle even- 
ing, I hope you wdll remember us, and take pity on us.” 

“You may see too much of me.” 

“ That is impossible,” said Yolande, quickly; and then 
she added, very prettily, “You know, Mr. Melville, if you 
come often enough you will find it quite natural that Dun- 
can should play for you ‘ Melville’s Welcome Home.’ ” 

He stood for a moment uncertain ; it was the first sign 
of embarrassment he had shown that night.” 

“Well,” said he, “that is the most friendly thing that 
has been said to me for many a day. Who could resist 
such an invitation ? Good-night — good-night.” 


CHAPTER XXI. 

NEIGHBORS. 

As it turned out, John Shortlands could not come north 
till the 20th ; so Mr. Winterbourne asked young Leslie to 
shoot with him for the first week, and the invitation had 
been gratefully accepted. The obligation, however, was not 
all on one side. The Master of Lynn was possessed of a 
long and familiar experience of the best and swiftest 
methods of getting the birds sent to a good market ; and ho 
made his arrangements in this direction with a business-like 
forethought which amused Mr. Winterbourne, who ex- 
pressed some whimsical scruples over his being transformed 
into a game-dealer. 

“ I don’t look at it in that light at all,” the Master said, 
coolly. “ Game is the only thing land like that will produce ; 
and I like to know what it is worth.' I think I can guar- 
antee that the hire of the gillies and ponies and panniera 
won’t cost you a farthing.” 

“ You should not be so anxious to have your own moor 
hard shot,” said Mr. Winterbourne, with a smile. 

“ But I am,” said this shrewd young man. “ There is no 


164 


YOLANDE, 


danger, on ground like this, of too small a breeding stock 
being left. It is all the other way. What I am afraid of is 
too big a stock, and the disease coming along. That is a 
terrible business. You are congratulating yourself on the 
number of birds, and on their fine condition ; and some 
pleasant morning you wake up to find the place swept 
clean.” 

“ Not in one night ? ” 

“ AYell, a day or two will do it. This epidemic is quite 
different from the ordinary mild forms of disease, where 
you can see the birds pining away to death. Instead of 
that you find them all about among the heather, dead, but 
perfectly plump and well-looking, not a sign of disease out- 
side or in. So, if you please, Mr. Winterbourne, don’t havo 
any scruples about turning on Duncan if you think we are 
not doing well enough. The bigger consignment we can 
send off the better.” 

Now one consequence of this arrangement was that when 
Yolande, in the morning, had said “ Good-by, papa.” and 
“ Good-by, Archie,” and given each of them a flower or some 
such trifle (for in that part of the country the presentation of 
a small gift, no matter what, to any one going shooting, is 
supposed to bring good luck), and when she had seen that 
luncheon was quite prepared to be sent up the hill when 
the first i)ony left, she found herself with the whole day be- 
fore her, with no companion, and with no occupation save 
that of wandering down the glen or up one of the hillsides 
in search of new flowers. It is not to be wondered at, then, 
that she should seek some variety by occasionally driving 
into Gress, when the dog-cart was taking the game shot the 
day before to Foyers, and spending a few hours with Mrs. 
Bell until the trap came back to pick her up again. For 
one thing, when she discovered some plants unknown to 
lier, she found it was much easier to consult Mr. Melville’s 
herbarium than to puzzle over the descriptions of the vari- 
ous species in the Flora ; and as he was generally occupied 
either in the schoolhouse or in his laboratory, she did not 
interfere with him. But the truth is, she liked this shrewd, 
kindly, wise old Scotchwoman, who was the only one in 
the neighborhood who took any notice of her. The people 
at' the Towers had neither called nor made any other over- 
tures. And as Mrs. Bell’s thoughtfulness and kindness took 
the substantial form of sending up to Allt-nam-Ba, pretty 
nearly every day, some article or articles likely to be of use 


YO LANDS. 16,5 

to the young housekeeper, of course Yolande had to drive 
m to thank her. 

“ Mrs. Bell/’ said she, one warm and sunny afternoon, 
when they were together in the garden (tliis good woman 
raade awful havoc among her flowers when Yolande came 
to see her), “ who was Aikendrum ? ” 

“ A young lad who went away for a sodger — so the song 
says.” 

“ And every one was so sorry, is it not so ? ” said this 
tall young lady, who already had her hands full of flowers. 
“ The Master was saying that if Mr. Melville leaves here, 
every one will be quite as sorry — it will be like the going 
away of Aikendrum.” 

“ W y should he go ? ” said Mrs. Bell, sharply. “ Wliy 
should he not stay among his own people — yes, and on land 
that may be his own one day ? ” And then she added, more 
gently : “ It is not a good thing for one to be away among 
strangers ; there’s many a sore heart comes o’ that. It’s 
not only them that are left behind ; sometimes it’s the one 
that goes away that is sorrowfu’ enough about it. I dare 
say, now, ye never heard o’ an old Scotch song they call 
‘ The sun rises briglit in France ’ ? ” 

“ Oh, will you sing it for me ? ” said Yolande, eagerly ; 
for indeed the reputation of this good dame for the singing 
of those old Scotch songs was wide in that district, though 
it was not every one whom she would honor. And her 
singing was strangely effective. She had but little of a 
voice ; she crooned rather than sang ; but she could give 
the words a curiously pathetic quality ; and she had tlie 
natural gift of knowing what particular airs she could make 
tell. 

She laid her hand on Yolande’s arm, as if to ask for at- 
tention : — 

“ ‘ The sun rises bright in France, 

And fair sets he ; 

But he has tint the blink he had 
In my ain countrie. 

It’s no my ain ruin 
That weets aye my e’e, 

But the dear Marie I left behind 
Wi’ sweet bairnies three.’ 

Ye’ve no heard that before? ” 

“Oh no. It is a very sad air. But why Marie? — that 
is French.” 

“ Well ye see, the French and the Scotch were very 


166 


YOLAND'E. 


thick* in former days, and Marie was a common name in 
Scotland. I am told tliey spoke nothing but French at 
Holyrood ; and the young gentlemen they were all for 
joining the French service — ” 

“ But is there no more of the song, Mrs. Bell ? ” 

Oh, ay, there are other two verses. But it’s no for 
an auld wife like me to be singing havers. ” 

“ Please.” 

“Very well, then : 

“ ‘ The bud comes back to summer, 

And the blossom to the tree, 

But I win back, oh, never, 

To my ain coimtrie. 

Gladness comes to many, 

Sorrow comes to me. 

As I look o’er the wide ocean 
To my ain countrie. 

“ ‘ Fu’ bienly low’d my ain hearth, 

And smiled my ain Marie : 

Oh, I’ve left my heart behind 
In my ain countrie ! 

Oh, I’m leal to high heaven. 

Which aye Avas leal to me. 

And it’s there I’ll meet ye a’ soon, 

Frae my ain comitrie.’ ’ t 

“ It is a beautiful air — but so sad,” Yolande said. And 
then she added, slyly, “And now ‘ Aikendruin.’ ” 

But Mrs. Bell doggedly refused, 

“ I tell ye it’s no for an auld wife like me to be fashing 
with such blethers ; it’s for young lassies when they’re out 
at the herding. And I hope, now, that ye are no likely to 
put any ‘Aikendruin’ notions into Mr, Melville’s head. 
Let him stay where he is. Maybe we’ll get him a better 
stance t in the countryside soon : stranger things have 
come to pass.” 

“ I ? ” said Yolande ; “ is it likely I should wish him to 
go away ? Perhaps you do not know, then, that I am 
going to live in this neighborhood — no ? ” 

“ Oh, indeed ; is that possible, noo ?” said Mrs. Bell — and 
she would say no more. She Avas herself most kindly and 
communicable ; but ahvays she preserved a certain reserve 
of manner in a case like this, ilowever, Yolande was quite 
frank. 

* Thick — intimate. 

t The words of this song are by Allan Cunningham; the music if 
an old Celtic air. f Stance — holding or position. 


YOLANDE. 


167 


. “ Oil yes,” said the young lady, cheerfully. “ Of course 
I must live here when I am married ; and of course, too, I 
look forward to seeing Mr. Melville always. He will be 
our nearest friend — almost the only one. But it is so diffi- 
cult to catch him. Either he is in the school, or he is up at 
the water-wheel — why, this moment, now if I could see 
liim, I would ask him to drive out to Allt-nani-Ba, when the 
can-iage comes and stay to dine with us.” 

“ I wish ye would — eh, I wish ye would, my dear young 
leddy ! ” the old dame exclaimed. “ For the way he goes 
on is just distressing. Not a settled projier meal will he sit 
down to ; nothing but a piece of cold meat aye to be stand- 
ingby. There it is — in there among they smelling chemi- 
cal things — day and night there must aye be the same thing 
on the side table waiting for him — some cold meat, a bit o’ 
bread, and a wee, scrimpit, half-])int bottle o’ that fushion- 
less claret wine that is not one preen point better than vin- 
egar. And then when he gives the bairns a day’s holiday, 
and starts aAvay for Loch-na-lairige — a ]»lace that no one 
has ever won to but the shejtherd — not a thing in his ])Ocket 
but a ])iece o’ bread and cheese. How he keeps iij) his 
strength — a big-boned man like that — passes me. If ye want 
to anger him, that’s the way to do it — compel him to sit doon 
to a respectable meal, and get the lasses to jn-epare a few 
things fqr him in a clever kind o’ way, as ye would get in 
any Christian liouse. Well, many a time I think if that’s 
the mainner they train young men at Oxford they would 
be better brought up at another ])lace. And what is the 
use of it? His means are far beyond his wants — I take care 
there is no wastefulness in the housekeeping, for one thing; 
and even if they were not, is there not my money ? — and a 
proud woman 1 would be that day that he would take a 
penny of it.” 

At this moment the object of these remarks came out of 
the laboratory — a small building standing at right angles 
with the house — and he was buttoning his coat as if he had 
just put it on. 

“Good-afternoon, Miss Winterbourne,” said he, and he 
seemed very pleased to see her as he took her hand for a 
second. “ I thought I heard your voice. And J have got 
a word of approval for you.” 

“Oh, indeed ?” said she, smiling; for occasionally his 
schoolmaster air and his condescending frankness amused 
her. 


YOLANDE. 


iG3 


“ I had a look over my herbarium last night ; you have 
been very careful.” 

‘‘ You thought I should not be ? ” 

I did not know. But if there had been any confusion 
or mischief done, I should not have mentioned it — no, prob- 
ably I should have let. you have your will; only I would 
never have allowed any one else to go near the place ; so 
you see you would have been inflicting injury on an un- 
known number of persons in ihe future.” 

“ But how wrong not to tell me ? ” she exclaimed. 

“ Oh, you have been careful enough. Indeed, you have 
taken unnecessary trouble. It is quite enough if the differ- 
ent genera are kept separate ; it is not necessary that the 
species should follow in the same order as they are in the 
Flora. You must not give yourself that trouble again/' 

“ When the dog-cart comes along,” said she, “ I hope 
you will drive out with me to Allt-nam-Ba, and spend the 
evening with us.” 

“You are very kind.” 

“ No, I am scheming,” she said. “ The truth is the 
fishmonger at Inverness has disappointed me — no, no, no, 
Mrs. Bell, on the whole he has been very good ; but this 
time there is a mistake; and do you think, Mr. Melville, if 
you are taking your rod you could get me a few trout out 
of the loch on the way home ? Is it too much to ask ? ” 

He glanced at the sky. “ I think we might manage it,” 
said he, “ though it is rather clear. There may be a breeze 
on the loch ; there generally is up there. But what wo 
ought to do is to set out now and walk it ; and let the trap 
pick us up at the loch. Can you walk so far? ” 

“ I should think so ! ” said Yolande. “And be delisrhted 

to.” 

“Well, I will go and get my rod and basket. Then as 
we go along I can tell you the names pf any plants you 
don’t know ; or answer any questions that may be puzzling 
you. Don’t be afraid to ask. I like it. It helps to keep 
one’s recollections clear. And I never laugh at ignorance; 
it is the pretense of knowledge that is contemptible.” 

They did not, however, talk botany exclusively as they 
walked away from Gress on this beautiful afternoon ; for he 
very speedily discovered that she knew far more about him 
and his family and his affairs than he could possibly have 
imagined. 

“ The days in Egypt were long,” she explained, “ 'a-nd 


YOLANDE, 


169 


the Master used to tel] me nil about this neighborhood, un- 
til, when I came to it, everything seemed quite familiar.” 

“ You have been a great traveller,” he said. 

“ Yes, we have travelled about a good deal. And you ? ” 

“ Not much. I think I am too lazy. The kind of travel- 
ling that I enjoy is to sit out in the garden of a summer 
evening, in an easy-chair, and to watch the sunset, and 2)er- 
liaps the moon slowly rising — ” 

“ But you said travelling,” she said. 

“ Well, you are hurling along at a rate of 68,000 miles 
an hour ; isn’t that quick enough for anything ? ” he said 
laughing. 

“ It is a cheap way of travelling,” said she, with a smile. 

“ That is why it suits me.” 

“But you don’t see much.” 

“No! Not when you can watch the stars appear one 
by one over the hill-tops? Don’t you think they are as in- 
teresting as the shops in the Palais Royal ? They are more 
mysterious, at all events. It does seem odd, you know, 
Avlien you think of the numbers of human beings all over the 
world — the small, tiny creatures — sticking up their little tin 
tubes at the midnight sky, and making guesses at what the 
stars are made of, and how they came to be there. It is a 
pathetic kind of thing to think about. I fancy I must try a 
‘ Zulu’ and a ‘March Brown.’ ” 

This startling non sequitnr was caused by the fact that 
by this time they had reached the loch, and that he fre- 
quently thought aloud in this fashion, heedless of any in- 
congruity and heedless also of his companion. He sat down 
on a lump of granite, and took out his fly-book. 

“ Won’t you walk on to the lodge. Miss Winterbourne ? ” 
said he. “ I am going to drift down in the boat, and it will 
be slow work for you.” 

“ I will wait on the bank,” said she, “ and watch. Do 
you not understand that I am seriously interested ? ” 

“ Then you will see whether I get any. It is a sport,” 
he added, as he was selecting the flies, “ that there is less to 
be said against than shooting, I imagine. I don’t like the 
idea of shooting birds, especially after I have missed one or 
two. Birds are such harmless creatures. But the fish is 
different — the fish is making a murderous snap at an in- 
nocent fly, or what he thinks to be a fly, when a little bit of 
steel catches him in the very act. It serves him right from 
the moral point of view.” 


170 


YOLANDE. 


“But surely he is justified in trying to get his dinner,*’ 
said she. “ Just as you are doing now.” 

“ Well, I will put on a jay’s wing also,” said he, “ and if 
they don’t like one or other of those nice wholesome little 
dishes, we must try them with something else.” 

As it happened, however, the trout seemed disposed to 
rise to anything, for it was a good fishing afternoon — warm, 
with a light wind ruffling the surface of the loch. By the 
time the dogcart came along he had got close on two dozen 
ill his basket, averaging about tliree to the pound, so that a 
selection from them would do very well for dinner ; and 
when he got ashore, and got into the trap, Yolande thanked 
him for them very prettily, while he, on the other hand, 
said that the obligation was all on his side. 

“Why do you not come oftener, then ?” she said as 
they were driving along up the wide glen. 

“ I might be depriving some one -else of the use of the 
boat,” he answered. 

“ No, no; how can tliat be? ” she insisted. “ They are 
all day up the hill. Why do you not come to the loch every 
afternoon, and then come in and spend the evenings with 
us? JMrs. Bell says you do very wrong about your food, 
not having proper meals at jn-oper times. Now we are 
always very punctual ; and if you came in and dined with 
us, it would teach you good habits.” 

“ You are too kind. Miss Winterbourne,” said he. 
“But please don’t think that 1 have forgotten tlie invitation 
you gave me the other night. I could not be so ungrateful 
as tliat.” 

“ And w’hat is the use of remembering, if you do not 
act on it ? ” said she ; but she could not lecture the school- 
master any further just then, for they had arrived at tlie 
wooden bridge, and she had to let the cob go very cautiously 
over that primitive structure. 

After dinner that evening Mr. Winterbourne begged to 
be excused for a short time, as he had a letter to write that 
he wished posted at Whitebridge the same night. This was 
the letter : 


Allt-nam-Ba, August 15. 

“ Dear Shortlands, — I am sending you a couple of 
brace of birds, and would send you more but that I can see 
that my future son-in-law regards these bequests with great 
disfavor ; and as it is in my interest that he is ti-ying to 


VOl.ANDE. 


171 


ninke ns nuioh as lie can out of the sliooting, I don’t like tc 
interfere with his economical exertions. Prudence in a 
young man should be encouraged ratlier than checked. I 
hope you will not be later than the 20th. I sliall be glad to 
liave \ou here. The fact is, I have been torturing mysell 
witli doubts and questions which may ap})carto you uncalled 
for. I hope they are uncalled for. Indeed, to all a])pear- 
ance, everything is going on well. Yolande is in the 
brightest spirits, and is delighted wiih the j)lace, and young 
Leslie seems very jn-oud of lier and affectionate. The oidy 
thing is wiiether I should not have put the whole facts of 
the case before him at the outset, and whether I am not 
bound in honor to do so, now, before the serious step of 
marriage is taken. J don’t know. I am afraid to do it, and 
afi-aid of what might ha})pen if 1 remain silent. There is a 
young man here, aMi-. Melville, who was Leslie’s tutor, ’and 
who remains his intimate associate and friend. He is very 
highly respected about here, and, as I judge, seems to 
deserve the high opinion every one lias of him. What I am 
thinking of now is the propriety of laying the whole affair 
before him, as Leslie’s nearest friend. He knows the other 
members of the family also. I could trust him to give an 
honest opinion ; and if he, knowing all the circumstances 
of the case, and knowing Leslie, and the ways of the family, 
were to think it unnecessai’y to break silence, then I might 
be fairly justified in letting the thing be as it is. Do you 
think so V But you will answer this question in person — 
not later than the 20th, I hope. 

“For a long time I thought that if only Yolande were 
married and settled quietly in the country there would be 
no further need for anxiety ; but now I can not keep from 
speculating on other possibilities, and wondering whether it 
would not be better to prevent any future ground of com- 
plaint and consequent unhapj)iness by telling the whole 
truth now. Surely that might be done without letting Yo- 
lande know. Wliy should she ever know ? 

“ If you can leave on the night of the 18th you will 
reach Inverness next forenoon, and catch the 3 p.m. boat 
down the Caledonian Canal. Most likely you will find 
Yolande waiting for you at the pier ; she likes driving. 
Our prospects for the 20th are fairly good : there is more 
cover black game up those mountainous corries than I could 
have expected. We shoot all we find, as they don’t stop 
here through the winter. On the 12th we had sixty-eight 


172 


YOLANDE. 


brace gronse, one ptarmigan, one snipe, and a few mountain 
hares; on the .I3th, seventy-one brace grouse, and also some 
hares ; yesterday it was wet and wild, and we only went out 
for an hour or so in tlie afternoon — nine brace; to-day was hue, 
and we got sixty-two brace grouse and one and a half brace 
ptarmigan. Young Leslie is about the best all round shot 
1 have ever seen — cool and certain. I think I get more 
nervous year by year ; but then he is a capital hand at 
redeeming mistakes, and that gives me a little more con- 
fidence, A stag and three hinds passed close by the lodge 
late last night — at least so the shepherds say. 

“ I know you won’t mind my asking you to bring some 
little trifle or other for Yolande, just to show that you were 
thinking of her. She will meet you at Foyers pier. 

“ Yours faithfully, G. R. Wintekboitkne.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“IM WALD TJND AUF DER HEIDE.” 

Next morning there was a sudden call on Mr. Winter- 
bourne to dismiss these fears and anxieties. The little com- 
munity away up there in the solitude of the hills was sud- 
denly thrown into violent commotion. A young gillie 
who had been wandering about had come running back 
to the bothy, declaring that he had seen a stag go into the 
wood just above the lodge, and of course the news was im- 
mediately carried to the house, and instantly the two gentle- 
men came out — Mr. Winterbourne eager and excited, the 
Master of Lynn not quite so sure of the truth of the report. 
Duncan, to tell the truth was also inclined to doubt ; for this 
young lad had until the previous year been a deck hand on 
board the Dunara Castle^ and knew a great deal more 
about skarts and sea-gulls than about stags. Moreover, the 
shepherds had been through the wood this same morning 
with their dogs. However, it was determined, after much 
hurried consultation, 'not to miss the chance if there was a 
chance. The day in any case, threatened to turn out badly 
the clouds were coming closer and closer down ; to drive this 
wood would bo a short and practicable undertaking that 


YOLANDE. 


173 

would carry them on conveniently to lunch- time. And so 
it was finally arranged that Mr. Winterbourne should go 
away by himself to a station that he knew, commanding 
certain gullies that the stag, if there was a stag, v/ould 
most likely make for ; while the Master would stay behind, 
and, after a calculated interval, go through the wood with 
Duncan and the beaters. 

In the midst of all this Miss^ Yolande suddenly, made her 
appearance, in a. short-skirted dress, thick boots, and deer- 
stalker’s cap. 

“Whatdoyot^ want ?” her father said, abruptly, and 
with a stare. 

“ I am going with you,” was her cool answer, 

“ Indeed you are not.” 

Why not, then ?” 

“Women going deer-stalking!” he exclaimed. “ What 
next ?” 

“ Can I not be as quiet as any one ? Why should I not 
go with you ? I have climbed the hill many times, and I 
know very well where to hide, for Duncan showed me the 
place.” 

“ Go spin, you jade, go spin !” her father said, as he 
shouldered the heavy rifle, and set off on the long and 
weary struggle up the hill, 

Tolande turned to the Master. 

“ Is he not unkind !” she said, in a crestfallen way. 

“ If I were you,” said he, laughing, “ I would go all the 
same.” 

“ Should I do any harm ? Is it possible that I could do 
any harm ?” she asked, quickly. 

“Not a bit of it. What harm could you do? There is 
room for a dozen people to hide in that place ; and if you 
keep your head just a little bit above the edge, and keep 
perfectly still, you will see the whole performance in the 
gully below. If there is a stag in the wood, and if I don’t 
get a shot at him, he is almost sure to go up through the 
gullies. You won’t scream, I suppose ? And don’t move j 
if you move a finger he will see you. And don’t tumble 
into too many moss-holes, Yolande, when you are crossing 
the moor. And don’t break your ankles in a peat-hag. And 
don’t topple over the edge Avhen you get to tlie gullies.” 

“ Do you think you will frighten me? No j I am going 
as soon as papa is out of sight." 

“ Oh, you can’t go wrong,” said he, good-naturedly. 


174 


YOLAXDF.. 


“ The only thing i«, when you get to the top of tlic hill, you 
might go on some three or four luindred yards before cross- 
ing the moor, so ‘as to keep well back from the wood.” 

“ Oh yes, certainly,” said Yolande. “ I understand 
very well.” 

Accordingly, some little time thereafter, she set out on 
her self-imposed task ; and she was fully aware that it was a 
fairly arduous one. Even here at the outset it was pretty 
stiff work; for the hill rose sheer away from the little pla 
teau on which the lodge stood, and the ground was rugged 
in some parts and a morass in others, while there was an 
abundance of treacherous holes where the heather* grew 
long among the rocks. But she had certain landmarks to 
guide her. At fii-st there was a sheep track ; then she 
made for two juniper bushes ; then for certain conspicuous 
boulders ; then, higher up, she came on a rough and stony face 
where the climbing was pretty difficult ; then by the edge 
of a little hollow that had a tree or two in it and then, as she 
was now nearly at the top, and as there was a smooth 
boulder convenient, she thought she would sit down a 
minute to regain her breath. Far below her the lodge and 
its dependencies looked like so many small toyhouscs; she 
could see the tiny figures of human beings moving about ; 
in the perfect silence she could hear the whining of the 
dogs shut up in the kennel. Then one of those miniature 
figures waved something white; she returned the signal. 
Then she rose and went on again ; she crossed a little burn ; 
she passed along the edge of some steep gullies leading 
away down to the Corrie-an-Eich, that is, the Corrie of the 
Horses and finally, after some further climbing, she reached 
the broad, wide, open, undulating moorland, from whchi 
nothing wasvisible but a wilderness of bare and bleak 
mountain-top, all as silent as the grave. 

She had been up here twice or thrice before ; but she 
never came upon this scene of vast and voiceless desolation 
without being struck by a sort of terror. It seemed away 
out of the world. And on this morning a deeper gloom 
than usual hung over it; the clouds were low and heavy ; 
there was a brooding stillness in the air. She was glad 
that some one had preceded her : the solitude of this place 
was terrible. 

And now as she set out to cross the wild moorland she 
discovered that that was a much more serious undertaking 
than when she liad a friendly hand to lend her assistance 


YOLA^^DE, 


175 


trom time to time. Tliis wide plain of moss and bog and 
heather was intersected by a succession of peatdiags, tlie oozy 
black soil of which was much more easy to slide down into 
than to clamber out of. Tlie Master of Lynn had taught 
her how to cross these hags ; one step down, then a spi*ing 
across then her right hand grasped by his right 
hand, then her elbow caught by his left hand, and she 
stood secure on the top of the other bank. But now, as she 
scrambled down the one side, so she had to scramble up the 
other, generally laying hold of a bunch of heather to help 
her ; and as she Avas anxious not to lose her Avay, she made 
a straight course across this desert waste, and did not turn 
aside for drier or smoother ground, as one better acquainted 
with the moor might have done. IIoAvever, she struggled 
on bravely. The first chill struck by that picture of desola- 
tion had gone. She Avas thinking more of the deer now. 
She hoped she would be up in time. She hoped her father 
would get a chance. And of course she made perfectly 
certain that if he did get a chance he Avould kill the stag ; 
and then there Avould be a joyful procession back to the 
lodge, and a rare to-do among the servants and the gillies, 
with perhaps a dance in the evening to the skirl of Dun- 
can’s pipes. 

All at once a cold Avind began to blow ; and about a 
minute thereafter she had no more idea of Avhere she was 
than if she had been in the middle of the Atlantic. The 
Avhole Avorld had been suddenly shut out from her ; all she 
could see Avas a yard or two, either Avay, of the wet moss 
and heather. This gray cloud that had come along was raw 
to the throat and to the eyes ; but it did not deposit much 
moisUire on her clothes ; its chief effect Avas the bewilder- 
ment of not seeing anything. And yet she thought she 
ought to go on. Perhaps she might get out of it. Perhaps 
the Avind would carry it off. And so she kept on as straight 
as she could guess, but Avith much more caution, for at any 
moment she might fall into one of the deep holes Avorn by 
the streams in the peat, or into one of the moss-holes Avhcre 
the vegetation was so treacherously green. 

But as she Avent on and on, and could find nothing that 
she could recognize, she gi-ew afraid. Moreover, there 
Avas a roaring of a Avaterfall somewhere, Avhich seemed to 
her louder than anything she had heard about there before. 
She began to wonder how far she had come, and to fear 
that in the mist she had lost her direction, and might be in 


176 


YOLANDE, 


the immediate iieigliborhood of some dangerous precipice. 
And tiieii, as she was looking all round her helplessly, her 
heart stood still with fright. There, away in that vague 
pall that encompassed her, stood the shadow, the ghost, of 
an anjiu&l, a large, visionary thing, motionless and noiseless, 
at a distance tiiat she could not compute. And now she 
felt sure that that was the stag they were in search of ; and, 
strangely enough, her agony of fear was not that she might 
by accident be shot through being in tlie neighborhood of 
the deer, but that she might by some movement on her part 
scare it away. She stood motionless, lier heart now beat- 
ing with excitement, her eyes fixed on this faint shade 
away in there, in the gray. It did not move. She kept 
her hands clinched by her side, so tliat she should not 
tremble. She dared not even sink into the heather and try 
to hide there. But the next moment she had almost 
screamed ; for there was a hurried rushing noise oehind her 
and as she (in spite of herself) wheeled round to face this 
new danger, a troop of phantoms went flying by — awful 
things they appeai-ed to be until, just as they passed licr, 
she recognized them to be humble and familiar slieep. More- 
over, when she saw that otlier animal out there disappear 
along with tliem — the whole of them looming large and 
mysterious in this cloud-world — she made sure that tliat 
had been a sheep also, and she breathed more freely. Must 
not these animals have been disturbed by her father? 
Ought she not to make back in the direction from which 
they had come ? To go any further forward she scarcely 
dared ; the roar of water seemed perilously near. 

As she thus stood, bewildered, uncertain, and full of a 
nameless dread, she saw before her a strange thing — a tiling 
that added amazement to her terror — a belt of white, like 
a waterfall, that seemed to connect earth and sky. It was 
at an unknown distance, but it appeared to be perfectly 
vertical, and she knew tiiat no such stupendous waterfall 
had she either seen before or heard of. That, then, that 
white water, was the cause of the roaring noise. And then 
she bethouglit her of a saying of Archie Leslie that tales 
were told of people having gone into this wilderness and 
never having been heard of again ; but that there was one 
sure way of escape for any one who got astray — to follow 
any one of the streams. That, he had said, must sooner or 
later lea/.i you down to Allt-nam-Ba. But when she thought 
of going away over to that white torrent, and seeking tc 


YOLANDE, 


177 


follow its course down through chasm after cliasm, sjie 
shuddered. For one wlio knew the country intimately — for 
a man who could jump from boulder to boulder, and swing 
himself from bush to bush — it might be possible ; for her 
it was impossible. Nor was there the slightest use in her 
trying to go back the way she came. She had lost all sense 
of direction ; there was nothing to give her a clue ; she was 
absolutely helpless. 

But fortunately she had the good sense to stand still and 
to consider her position with such calmness as she could mus- 
ter; and that took time, insensibly to lierself, the clouds 
around were growing thinner. Then she noticed that the 
u])per part of that awe-inspiring torrent liad receded very 
considerably — that the white line was no longer vertical, but 
seemed to stretch back into the distance. Then the moorland 
visible around her began to grow more extended. Here and 
there faint visions of hills appeared. And then a flood of 
joyful recognition bn)ke over her. That awful torrent was 
nothing but the familiar Allt-cam-Ban,* its brawling white 
stream not vertical at all, but merely .winding down from 
the far heights of the hills. She had come too far certainly ; 
but now she knew that the gullies she was in search of 
were just behind her, and that her father’s hiding-place 
was not more than three liundred yards distant. The cloud 
that had encompassed her was now trailing along the face 
of the hill opposite her ; the gloomy landscape was clear in 
all its features. With a light heart she tripped along, over 
heather, across hags, through sopping moss, until behind a 
little barricade which Nature had formed at the summit of 
a precipice overlooking certain ravines — a little box, as it 
were, that looked as if it had been dug out for the very pur- 
pose of deer-slaying — she found her father quietly standing, 
and cautiously peering over the ledge. 

When he heai-d her stealthy approach he quickly turned ; 
then he motioned her to stoop down and come to him. 
This she did very cautiously and breathlessly, and presently 
she was standing beside him, on a spot which enabled her 
to look down into the gullies beneath. These certainly 
formed a most admirable deer-trap, if ever there was one^ 
The place consisted of a series of little hills or lumps, prob- 
ably not more than 150 feet in height, with sheer smooth 
sloj^os, here and there lightly wooded, but mostly covered 


* The White Winding Water. 


178 


YOLAA'/JR. 


witli heatlicr. The gullies between those Ium])S. ngnin, 
came to a point in a ravine just underneatli where Yolande 
was standing; so that, whiclieser way the deer came, tliey 
were almost certain to make up tlie steep face just opposite 
this station, and so give the rifleman an excellent chance. 
Yolande took out her housekeeper’s note-book, and wrote 
on the fly-leaf : 

“ Have you seen anything ? ” 

He sliook his liead, and motioned to her to ]mt the book 
away. It was not a time for trifling. If there were a stag 
in the unseen woods beyond, it might make its sudden ap- 
pearance in this silent little ravine at any moment, and 
might make for the top by some quite unexpected ti'ack. 
He kept his eyes on the watcli all along the gidlies*; but his 
head was motionless. Yolande too was eager and anxious 
— but only for a while. As time jjassed she grew listless. 
This solitude seemed always to have been a solitude. There 
was no sign of life in it. Doubtless the young lad liad been 
deceived. And then she grew to thinking of the strajige 
sight she saw in the mist, when the waters of the Allt-cam- 
Ban seemed to be one foaming white vertical torrent. 

Then a shock came to her eyes — a living thing suddenly 
appeared in* that empty solitude ; and at once she clinched 
lier hands. She knew what was ex])ected of her. She re- 
mained rigid as a stone; she would not even raise her head 
to see if her father saw. She kept lier eyes on this startling 
feature in the landscape ; she h.eld her breath ; she was 
mainly conscious of a dim fear that this animal that was 
coming over that hillock at such a speed was not a deer at 
all, but a fox. It was of a light reddish-brown color. Then 
it liad not come up any of the gullies, as she liad been told 
to expect ; it had come right over the top of the little hill, 
with a long, sinuous stride; and now it was descending 
again into the ravine. But here she saw it was a deer. 
Once out of the long heather, and coming nearer too, it was 
clear that this was a deer. But surely small ? Where were 
the great horns? Or was it a hind ? She knew rather than 
saw that her father twice aimed his rifle at this animal, 
whatever it was, as it sped across an open space at the 
bottom of the ravine. Of course all this liaj'pened in a few 
seconds, and she had just begun to tliink that the animal 
had horns, and was a roebuck, when the. lithe, red, sinuous, 
silent object disappeared altogether behind a ridge. Stilj 


YOLANDE. 179 

Bhe did not move. Slio did not express disappointment. 
She would not turn lier head. 

Then slie knew that her father liad quickly passed lier 
and jum])ed on a clump of heatlier whence he could get a 
better view. She followed. The next thing she saw, clear 
against the sky, and not more than a hundred and twenty 
yards off, was the head of a deer, the horns thrown back, 
the nostrils high in the air. The same instant her father fired ; 
and that strange object (which very much frightened her) 
disappeared. She saw her father pause for a second to put 
a fresh cartridge in his rifle and then away he hurried to 
the place where the deer had passed; and so she thought 
she might safely follow. She found her father searching all 
about, but more particularly studying the peat-hags. 

• “ I do believe I hit him,” he said (and there was consid- 
erable vexation in his tone). “Look about, Yolande. He 
must have crossed the peat somewhere. If he is wounded, 
he may not have gone far. It was only a roebuck — still — 
such a chance! Confound it, I believe Tve missed him 
clean I ” 

He was evidently grievously mortified, and she was sorry, 
for she knew he would worry about it afterward ; smaller 
trifles than that made him fidget. But all their searching 
was in vain. The peat-hags here were narrow : a frightened 
deer would clear them. 

“ If he is wounded, papa, Duncan and the dogs will go 
after him.” 

“ Oh no,” said he, moodily ; “ I believe I missed him 
clean. If he had been hit he couldn’t liave got away so 
fast. Of course it was only a buck — still — ” 

“ But, papa, it was a most difficult shot. I never saw 
any creature go at such a pace ; and you only saw liim for 
a moment.” 

“Yes, and for that moment he looked as big as a cow 
against the sky. Nobody but an idiot could have missed 
the thing.” 

“ Oh, you need not try to make me believe you are a 
bad %hot,” said she ])foudly. “No. Every one -knows 
better than that. I know what Mr. Leslie tells me. And 
I suppose the very best shot in the world misses some- 
times.” 

“ Well, there is no use waiting here,” said he. “ Of 
course there was no stag. The stag that idiot of a boy saw 
was this roebuck. If there were a stag, the noise of the 


180 


YOLANDE. 


shot must have driven him off. Why the mischief I did 
not fire wlien he was crossing the gully I don’t understand ! 
I had my rifie up twice — ” 

“ Papa,” said she, suddenly, “ what is that ? ” 

She was looking away down into the ravine beneath 
them — at a dusky red object that was lying in a patch of 
gi-een bracken. He followed the direction of her eyes. 

“ Why, surely — yes, it is, Yolande — that is the buck , 
lie must have fallen backward and rolled right down to the 
bottom — ” 

“ And you said you were such a bad shot, papa ! ” 

“ Oh, that is no such prize,” he said (but he spoke a 
good deal more cheerfully) ; “what I wonder is whether 
the poor beast is dead ; I suppose he must be.” 

“ There they come — there they come — look ! ” she said ; 
and she was far more excited and delighted than he was. 
“ There is the red gillie at the top, and Duncan coming 
along by tlie hollow — and there is Archie — ” 

She took out her hankerchief and waved it in the air. 

“ Don’t, Yolande,” said he. “ They’ll think we’ve got 
a stag.” 

“We’ve got all the. stag there was to get,” said she, 
proudly. “ And you said you were not a good shot — to 
shoot a roebuck running at such a pace ! ” 

“ You are the most thorough going flatterer, Yolande,” 
he said, laughing (but he was very much pleased all the 
same). “ Why, he wasn’t going at all just at the crest — 
he stopped to sniff the air — ” 

“ But you could only have seen him for the fiftieth part 
of a second : isn’t that the same as running?” 

At this moment a voice was heard from below, where a 
little group of figures had collected round the buck. It 
was the Master of Lynn who was looking up to them. 

“ A very fine head sir,” he called. 

“ There, didn’t I tell you ? ” she said proudly, though 
she had never told him anything of the kind. And then in 
the excitement of the moment she forgot that she had never 
revealed to her father that little arrangement about the 
whiskey that the Master had suggested to her. 

“ Duncan,” she called down to them. 

“ Yes, miss.” 

“ When you go back home, you will let the beaters 
have a glass of whiskey bach.” 

“Very well, miss,” he called back; and then he qro- 




YOLANDE. 181 

ceeded with the slinging of the buck round the shoulders 
of the red-headed gillie. 

“ Archie,” she called again. 

“ Yes,” 

“ If you are back at the lodge first, wait for us. We 
shall be there in time for lunch.” 

“ All right.” 

She was very proud and pleased as they trudged away 
home again over the wild moorland. For her part she 
could see no difference between a roe-deer and a red-deer, 
except that the former (as she declared) was a great deal 
pleasanter to eat, as she hoped she would be able to show 
them. And was it not a far more difficult thing to hit a 
deer of the size of a roebuck than to hit a stag as tall as a 
horse ? 

“ Flatterer, flatterer,” he said, but he was mightily well 
pleased all the same ; and indeed to see Yolande gay and 
cheerful like this was of itself quite enough for him ; so that 
for the time he forgot all his anxieties and fears. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A CONFIDANT. 

One evening John Shortlands and Jack Melville were 
together standing at the door of the lodge, looking down the 
glen at the very singular spectacle there presented. The 
day had been dull and overclouded, and seemed about to sink 
into an equally gloomy evening, when suddenly, at sunset, 
the western heavens broke into a flame of red ; and all at 
once the stream flowing down through the valley became 
one sheet of vivid pink fire, only broken here and there by 
the big blocks of granite in its channel, which remained 
of a pale and ghostly gray. 

The big, burly M. P., however, did not seem wholly oc- 
cupied with this transfiguration of the heavens. He looked 
vexed, perturbed, impatient. 

“ Mr.. Melville,” he said, abruptly, in his broad North* 
umbrian intonation, “ will you walk down the glen for a 
bit ? ’’ 


182 


YOLANDE. 


“ Yes; bit we should fetch Miss Winterbourne to show 
her the skies on fire.” 

“ No ; it’s about her I want to speak to you. Come 
along.” 

“ About her ? ” he repeated, with the large clear gray- 
eyes showing some astonishment. 

“ Or rather,” said his companion, when they had got as 
far as the bridge, “ about her father. Winterbourne is an 
old friend of mine, and I won’t just call him an ass ; but 
the way he is going on at present, shilly-shallying, frightened 
to say this, friglitened to say that, is enough to worry a far 
stronger man tlian he is into his grave. Well, if be won’t 
speak, I will. Dang it, I hate mystery ! My motto is — ■ 
Out with it ! And he would never have got into this pre- 
cious mess if he had taken my advice all through.” 

Melville was surprised, but he did not interrupt. John 
Shortlands seemed a trifle angry. 

“ The immediate trouble udth him is this : Ought he or 
ought he not to confide certain matters to you as a friend 
of young Leslie ? Well, I am going to take that into ray 
own hand. I am going to tell you the whole story — and a 
miserable business it is.” 

“ Do you think that is wise ? ” the younger man said calm- 
ly. “ If there is anything disagreeable, shouldn’t the knowl- 
edge of it be kept to as few j)eople as possible? I would 
rather have my illusions left. The Winterbournes have 
been kind to me since they came here, and it has been de- 
lightful to me to look at these two — the spectacle of father 
and daughter.” 

“ Oh, but I have nothing to say against either of them 
— God forldd ! — except that Winterbourne has been a con- 
founded ass, as it seems to me ; or perhaps I should say as 
it used to seem to me. Well, now, I suppose you know 
that your friend Leslie and Yolande are engaged?” 

“ I have understood as much.” 

“But did he not tell ye?” said Shortlands, with a stare. 

“ Well, yes,” the other said, in rather a cold way. 
“But we did not have much talk about it. Archie Leslie 
is a very fine fellow ; but he and I don’t always agree in 
our ways of looking at things.” 

“ Then, at all events, in order to disagree, you must 
know what his way of looking at things is ; and that is just 
the point I’m coming to,” said Shortlands, in his blunt, 
dogmatic kind of way. “Just this, that Yolande Winter 


YOLA^TDE. 


183 


bourne has been brought up all her life to believe that her 
mother died when she was a child ; whereas tlie inotlier is 
not dead, but very much alive — worse luck ; and the point 
is whether he ought to be told ; and whether he is a sensible 
sort of chap, who would make no fuss about it, and who 
would see that it could not matter much to him ; and, above 
all, whether he w.ould consent to keep this knowledge back 
from Yolande, who woi^ld only be shocked and horrified 
by it. Do ye understand ? I think 1 have put it plain — 
that is, from Winterbourne’s point of view.” 

“ But, surely,” exclaimed Melville, with wide-open eyes 
— “surely the best thing, surely the natural thing, would be 
to tell the girl herself, first of all ! ” 

“ Man alive! Winterbourne would rather cut his throat. 
Don’t you see that his affection for the girl is quite extraor- 
dinary ? It is the sole passion of his life : a needle scrfitch 
on Yolande’s finger is like a knife to his heart. I assure 
you the misery he has endured in keeping this secret is 
beyond anything I can tell you ; and I do believe he would 
go through the whole thing again just that Yolande’s mind 
should be free, happy, and careless. Mind you, it was not 
done through any advice of mine. No ; nor was it Winter- 
bourne either who began it ; it was his sister. The child 
was given to her charge when she was about two or three 
years old, I fancy. Then they were living in Lincolnshire ; 
afterward they went to Frajice, and the aunt died there. It 
was she who brought Yolande up to believe her mother 
dead ; and then Winterbourne put off and put off telling her 
— although twenty times I remonstrated with him — until he 
foiind it quite impossible. He couldn’t do it. Sometimes 
when I look at her now I scarcely wonder. She seems such 
a radiant kind of a creature that I doubt whether I could 
bring myself to tell her that story — no, I could not — dang 
it ! I could not. And even when I was having rows with 
Winterbourne, and telling him what an ass he was, and tell- 
ing him that the torture he was going through was quite 
unnecessary, wfiiy, man, I thought there was something 
fine in it too ; and again and again I have watched him 
when he would sit and look at Yolande and listen to all her 
nonsense, and have seen his face just filled with pleasure 
to see her so ha))py and careless, and then I thought he had 
his moments of recompense also. When he goes about 
• with her he forgets all that worry — thank goodness for that ! 
and certainly she is high-si^irited enough for anything. 


184 


YOLANDE. 


You would think she had never known a care or a trouble 
in all her existence ; and I suppose that’s about the truth/*’ 

John Shortlands had grown quite eloquent about Yo- 
lande — although, indeed, he was not much of an orator in 
the House ; and his companion listened in silence — in a 
profound reverie, in fact. At last he said slowly, — 

“ I suppose there is no necessity that I should kno v 
why the girl has been kept in ignorance of her mother’s 
existence?” 

“ Oh, I will tell you the story — miserable as it is. Well, 
it is a sad story, too ; for you can not imagine a pleasanter 
creature than that was -svhen Winterbourne married her. 
He was older than she was, but not much : he looks a good 
deal older now than he really is: those years have told on 
him. It was neuralgia that began it ; she suffered horribly. 
Then some idiot advised her to drink port- wine — I suppose 
the very worst thing she could have tried, for if it is bad 
for gout, it must be bad for rheumatism and neuralgia and 
such things; at least I should think so. However, it 
soothed her at first, I suppose, and no doubt she took refuge 
in it whenever a bad attack caiL;e on. But, mind you, it 
was not that, that played the mischief with her. She did 
take too much — I suppose she had to go on increasing the 
doses — but she had not destroyed her self-control ; for quite 
suddenly she went to her husband, who had suspected 
nothing of the kind, told him -frankly that the habit was 
growing on her, and declared her resolution to break the 
thing off at once. She did that. I firmly believe she did 
keep her resolution to the letter. But then the poor wretch 
had Avorse and worse agony to bear, and then it was that 
somebody or other — it wasn’t Winterbourne, and he knew 
nothing about it — recommended her to try small doses of 
opium — as a sort of medicine, don’t ye see. I think it Avas 
opium, for I ^am not sure Avliether chlorodyne Avas in use 
just then ; but all events it was chlorodyne soon afterward : 
and it seems miraculous how women can go on destroying 
themselves Avith those infernal drugs Avithout being found 
out. I don’t knoAV Avhether Winterbourne would ever have 
found it out; for he is an indulgent sort of chap, and he 
was very fond of her ; but one night there was a scene at 
dinner. Then he discovered the Avhole thing. The child 
was sent aAvay for fear of further scenes, and this so terrified 
the mother that she made the most solemn promises never 
to touch the poison again. But by this time — here is th» 


YOLANDE. 


185 


mischief of those infernal thingfs — her power of self-con tro) 
nad been affected. IVIan alive ! I can’t tell ye what Winter- 
bourne had to go through. His patience with her was 
superhuman ; and always the promise held out to her waw 
that Yolande was to be restored to her, and sometimes she 
succeeded so well that every one was hopeful, and she seemed 
to have quite recovered. Then again there would bo 
another relapse, and a wild struggle to conceal it from the 
friends of the family, and all the rest of it. What a life 
he has led all those years, trying to get her to live in some 
safe retreat or other, and then suddenly finding that she 
had broken out again, and gone to some people — Romneys 
or Romfords the name is — who have a most pernicious influ- 
ence over her, and can do any^ng with her when she is 
in that semi-maudlin state! /Oi course they use her to 
extort money from Winterbourne ; and she has drugged 
half her wits away ; and it is easy for them to persuade her 
that she has been ill-treated about Yolande. Then she will 
go down to the House, or hunt him out at his lodgings^' 
Oh, I assure you, I can’t tell you what has been going on 
all these years. There is only one fortunate thing — that 
the Romfords are not aware of the terror in which he lives of 
Yolande getting to know the truth, or else they would put 
the screw on a good deal more forcibly, I reckon. As for 
her, poor woman, she has no idea of asking for money for 
herself ; in fact, she has plenty. It is not a question of 
money with Winterbourne. His dread is that she might 
stumble on them accidentally, and Yolande have to be 
told.. That is why he has consented to her remaining all . 
these years in France, though his only delight is in her 
society. That is why he won’t let her live in London, but 
would rather put himself to any inconvenience by her 
living elsewhere. That is why he looks forward with very 
fair composure to a separation : Yolande living in peace 
and quiet in this neighborhood here, and he left in London 
to take his chance of a stone being thrown through his 
window at any hour of the day or night.” 

“ But that terrorism is perfectly frightful ! ” 

“ How are you to avoid it ? ” said Sliortlands, coolly. 

“ There is the one way, of course — there is the heroic remedy. 
Tell Yolande the whole story; and then, the next time the 
stone is thrown, summon the police, give tlie woman in 
charge, bind her over in recognizance.s, and have all your 


186 


YOLANDE. 


names in the next day’s paper. Some men could do that. 
Winterbourne couldn’t; he hasn’t the'^erve.’ 

The answer to tliat was a strange one. It was a re- 
mark, or rather an exclamation, that Melville seemed to 
make almost to himself. 

“ My God ! not one of them appears to see what ought 
to be done ! ” 

But the remark was overheard. 

“ Wliat would you do, then ? ” 

“ I?” said Melville — and John Shortlands did not ob- 
serve that the relined, intellectual face of his companion 
grew a shade paler as he spoke — “ I ? I would go straight 
to the girl herself, and I would say, ‘ That is the condition 
in which your mother is : it is your duty to go and save 
her.’ ” 

“ Then let me tell you this, Mr. Melville,” said Short- 
hands, quite as warmly, “ rather than bring such shame and 
horror and suffering on his daughter, George Winterbourne 
would cut off his fingers one by one. Why, man, you 
don’t understand what that girl is to him — his very life ! 
Besides, everything has been tried. You don’t suppose the 
mother would have been allowed to sink to that state with- 
out every human effort being made to save her ; and al- 
ways Yolande herself held out to her as the future reward. 
Now we must be getting back, I think. But I wish you* 
would think over what I have told you, and let 
Winterbourne have your opinion as to whether all this 
should be declared to your friend Leslie. Winterbourne’s 
first idea was that if Yolande were married and settled in 
the country — especially in such a remote neighborhood as 
this — there would be no heed to tell even her husband about 
it. It could not concern them. But now he is worrying 
liiiuself to death about other possibilities. Supposing 
something disagreeable were to happen in London, and the 
family name get into the paper, then Yolande’s husband 
might turn round and ask why it had been concealed from 
him. That might be unpleasant, you know. If he were 
not considerate, he might put the blame on her. The fact 
is. Winterbourne has had his nervous system so pulled to 
pieces by all this fear and secrecy and anxiety that he ex- 
aggerates things tremendously, and keeps speculating on 
dangers never likely to occur. Why, he can’t shoot half 
as well as he used to ; he is always imagining something is 
going to happen, and he does not take half his chances, 


YOLAiVDE, 


187 


just for fear of missing, and being mortified after. He has 
not had a pleasant time of it these many years.” 

They turned now, and leisurely made their way back to 
the lodge. The red sunset still flared up the glen ; but now 
it was behind them, and it was a soft warm color that tliey 
saw spreading over the heather slopes of the hills, and the 
wooded corries, and the little plateau between the conver- 
gent steams. 

“ May 1 ask your own opinion, Mr. Shorthands.” said 
Melville, after a time, “ as to whether this thing should be 
kept back from Leslie ? ” 

“ Well, I should say tliat would depend pretty much on 
his character,” was the answer, “ and as to that I know 
very little. My own inclination would be for having a frank 
disclosure all round ; but still I see what Winterbourne has 
to say for himself, and I can not imagine how the existence 
of this })Oor woman could concern either your friend Leslie 
or his wife. Probably they would never hear a word of her. 
She can’t live long. She must have destroyed herconstitu* 
tion com])letely. Poor wretch ! one can’t help pitying her ; 
and at the same time,’ you know, it would be a great relief if 
she were dead, both to herself and her relatives. Of course, 
if Mr. Leslie were a finical sort of person — I am talking in 
absolute confidence, you knowg and in ignorance as well — 
he might make some objection ; but if he were a man with 
a good sound base of character, he would say, ‘ Well, what 
does that matter to me ? ” and he would have some con- 
sideration for what Mr. Winterbourne has gone through in 
order to keep this trouble concealed from the girl, and wmuld 
himself be as willing to conceal it from her.” 

“ Don’t you think,” said IMelville, after a minute’s pause, 
that the mere fact that he might make some objection is a 
reason why he should be informed at once ? ” 

“ Is he an ass ? ” said John Shortlands, bluntly. “Is 
he a worrying sort of creature?” 

“ Oh, not at all. lie is remarkably sensible — very sensibhj. 
He will take a perfectly calm view of the situation : you may 
depend on that.” 

“ Other things being equal, I am for his being told — 
most distinctly. If he has common-sense, there need be 
1 no trouble. On the other hand, you know, if you should 
I think we are making a fuss where none is necessary, I h.ave 
I a notion that Winterbourne would be satisfied by your 
' judgment, as an intimate friend of Leslie’s.” 


188 


YOLANDE. 


“ But that is putting rather a serious responsibility on 
me. Supposing it is decided to say nothing about the matter, 
then I should be in the awkward ])osition of knowing some- 
thinff affc'ectino- Leslie’s domestic affairs of which he would 

o o 

be ignorant. 

Undoubtedly. I quite see that. But if you are afraid 
of accepting the responsiblity, there’s an easy wa}'^ out of it. 
I will go and tell it myself, and have it over. I have already 
broken away from Winterbourne’s shilly-shallying by speak- 
ing to you ; he would never have done it, and he is worrying 
himself into his grave. He is a timid and sensitive fellow. 
He now thinks he should have told the Master, as he calls 
liim, when he first proposed for Yolande, and perhaps it 
raiglit have been better to do so ; but I can see how he was 
probably well inclined to the match for various reasons, and 
anxious not to put any imaginary stumbling-block in tlie, 
way. But now if you were to go to him and say, ‘ Well, I 
have heard the whole story. It can’t concern either Yolande 
or her future husband. Forget the whole thing, and don’t 
worry any more about it, J do believe he would recover 
his peace of mind, for he has confidence in your judg- 
ment.” 

“ It would be rather a serious thing.” 

“ I know it.” 

“ I must take time to turn the matter over.” 

“ Oh, certainly.” 

They had now reachea the bridge, and happening to look 
lip they saw that Yolande had come to the door of the lodge, 
and was standing there, and waving a handkerchief to them 
as a sign to make haste. And what a pretty picture she made 
as she stood there ! — the warm light from the west aglow 
upon the tall English-looking figure clad in a light-hued 
costume, and giving color to the fair, freckled face, and the 
ruddy gold aureole of her hair. Melville’s eyes lighted up 
with pleasure at the very sight of her ; it was but natural — 
she was like a vision. ^ 

“ Ah,” said she, shaking her finger at them as they went 
up the i^ath, “ you are wicked men. Seven minutes late 
already ; and if the two-pounder that Mr. Melville brought 
for me has fallen all to pieces you must have yourselves to 
blame — that is true.” 

“ I wish. Miss Winterbourne,” said Jack Melville, “ that 
some noble creature would give me a day’s salmon-fishing. 
Then I could bring you something better than loch trout.” 


YOLANDE. 


189 


“ Oh no,” she answered imperiously,” I will not have 
anything said against the loch trout. No, I am sure there 
is nothing ever so good as what you get from your own 
place — nothing. Papa says that riev(3r, never did he have 
such cutlets as those from the roe-deer that he sliot las* 
week.” 

“I can tell you. Miss Yolande,” said John Shortlands, 
“that others besides your father fully appreciated those 
cutlets. The whole thing depends on whether you have 
got a smart young housekeeper ; and I have it in my head 
now that I am going to spend the rest of my days at Allt- 
nam-Ba; and 1 will engage you, on your own terms — name 
them ; you shall liave the money down ; and then I will 
have Duncan compose a march for me ; why should it be 
always ‘Melville’s Welcome Home’?” 

“ But you are also to have the ‘ Barren Rocks of Aden’ 
to-night,” said she, brightly. “ I told Duncan it was youi 
favorite. Now come along — come along — oh, dear me! it 
is ten minutes late ! ” 

Jack Melville was rather silent that night at dinner. 
And always — when lie could make perfetly certain that her 
eyes were cast down, or turned in the direction of John 
Shorthands or of her father — he was studying Yolande’s 
face , and sometimes he would recall the phrase that Mrs. 
Bell had used on the first occasion she had seen this young 
lady, or rather, immediately after parting with her, “ She’s 
a braw lass, that ; I fear she will make some man’s heart 
sore ; ” and then again he kept wondering and speculating 
as to w’hat possible strength of will and womanly character 
there might lie behind those fair, soft, girlish features. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A PEACSMAKEE. 

Pretty Mrs. Graham was standing in her room at In- 
verstroy, ready to go out ; her husband was in the adjacent 
dressing-room, engaged in the operation of shaving. 

“ You need not be afraid, Jim,” said the young matron ; 
“ everything has been arranged. Evei-ything will go quite 


190 


YOLANDE. 


right till I come back. And Archie is to meet me at Fort 
Augustus, so that the ponies won’t have the long pull up 
Glendoe.” 

“ Why can’t he manage his own affairs ? ” the stout 
warrior grumbled. 

‘‘Aunt Colquhoun isn’t easy to get on with,” she said. 
“And I am beginning to feel anxious. What would you 
say to his getting spiteful, and running away with Shena 
Van f ” 

“ StuJ^!” 

“ Oh, I don’t know. If I chose I could show you somoi 
thing I cut out of the Inverness Courier about three years 
ago. Well, I will show it to you.” 

She went to a drawer in her wardrobe, and hunted 
about for a time until she found the newspaper cutting, 
which she brought back and put before him on the dressing- 
table. This was what he took up and read, — 

“for shena’s jtew- year’s day morning 

“Her eyes are dark and soft and blue, 

Sbe’s light-stepped as the roe : 

O Shena, Sheiia, my heart is true 
To you where’er you go. 

“ I wish that I were by the rills 
Above the Allt-cam-ban ; 

And wandering with me o’er the hills, 

My own dear Sheika Yan. 

“Far other sights and scenes I view: 

The year goes out in snow : 

O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
To you where’er you go.” 

“Well,” said he, contemptuously throwing down again 
the piece of paper, “ you don’t suppose Archie wrote that 
rubbish ? That isn’t his line.” 

“It’s a line that most lads take at a certain age,”said 
Mrs. Graham, shrewdly. 

“ More likely some moonstruck ploughboy ! ” her hus- 
band interjected; for indeed he did not seem to think 
much of those verses, which she regarded with some fond- 
ness. 

“ I am afraid,” said she, looking at the lines, that the 
ploughboys in this part of the world don’t know quite as 
much English as all that comes to. And how many people 


VOLANDE. 


191 


do you think now, Jim, have ever heard of the Allt-cam- 
ban ? And then Shena, how many people have ever heard 
of Janet Stewart’s nickname? There is another thing. 
Those verses appeared when Arcliie was at Edinburgh, and 
of course he knew very well that, although he was not 
allowed to write to her, the Inverness Courier will make 
Hs way into the manse. 1 think they are very pretty. 

‘ O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
To you where’er you go.’ 

That IS the worst of marrying an old man. They never 
write poetry about you.” 

“ You call that poetry ! ” he said. 

“ Well, good-by, Jim. I will tell Mackenzie when he is 
to meet me at Fort Augustus.” 

“ Bring back Yolande Winterbourne with you,” said 
Colonel Graham, who had now about finished his toilette. 

“How can I, without asking her father? And there 
wouldn’t be room.” 

“ I don’t want her father. I want her. There is no 
fun in having a whole houseful of married women.” 

“ I quite agree with you. And who wanted them ? 
Certainly not I. There is only one thing more absurd than 
having nothing but married women in the house, and that 
is liaving nothing but married men. But you have had a 
warning this year, Jim. Everybody acknowledges that 
there never was such bad shooting. I hope another year 
you will get one or two younger men who know what 
shooting is, and who can climb. Well, good-by, Jim.” 
And presently pretty Mrs. Graham was seated in a light 
little wagonette of polished oak, the reins in her hand, and 
a pair of stout little ponies trotting away down through the 
wooded and winding deeps of Glenstroy. 

It was a long drive to Fort Augustus ; and although 
from time to time a refrain went echoing through her 
head, — 

“ O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
To you where’er you go,” 

and apparently connecting itself somehow with the patter- 
ing of the horses’ feet on the road, still her brain was far 
from being idle. This expedition was entirely of her own 
proper choice and motion. In truth she had been alarmed 
by th<; very fact that the Master of Lvnn had ceased to wish 


192 


YOLANDE. 


for her interference. He had refused to urge his case fur- 
ther. If the people at Lynn Towers were blind to their own 
interests, they might remain so. He was not going to argue 
and stir up domestic dissension. He would not allow Yo- 
lande’s name to be drawn into any such brawl ; and certainly 
he would n#t suffer any discussion of herself or her merits. 
All this Mrs. Graham gathered vaguely from one or two 
letters, and as she considered the situation as being obviously 
dangerous, she liad, at great inconvenience to herself, left 
her house full of guests, and was now about to see what 
could be done at I ynn Towers. 

When she reached Port Augustus, Archie Leslie w'as 
waiting for her there at the hotel, and she found him in the 
same mood. He did not wish to have anything said about 
the matter. He professed to be indifferent. He assumed 
that his sister had come on an ordinary filial visit, and he 
had luncheon ready for her. He said she was looking [pret- 
tier than ever ; and w^as anxious to know whether they had 
done well with the shooting at Investroy. 

“ Now look here, Archie,” said she, when the waiter had 
finally left the room, “ let us understand each other. 'iTou 
know what I have come about — at some trouble to myself. 
There is no use in your making the thing more difficult than 
needs be. And you know perfectly well that matters can- 
not remain as they are.” 

“ I know perfectly well that matters cannot remain as 
they are,” he repeated, with some touch of irony, “ for this 
excellent reason, that in the course of time the Winter- 
bournes will be going south, and that as Mr. Winterbourne 
has never been within the doors of Lynn Towers, and isn’t 
likely to be, he will draw his own conclusions. Probably he 
has done <ir> already. I haven’t seen much of him since his 
friend Shortlands came. Very likely he already under- 
stands why our family have taken no notice of them, and I 
know he is too proud a man to allow his daughter to be 
mixed up in any domestic squabble. They will go south. 
That will be — Good-by.”- 

“But, my dear Master,” his sister protested, “ if you 
would only show a little conciliation — ” 

“What!” he said, indignantly. “Do you think lam 
going to beg for an invitation for Mr. Winterbourne ? Do 
you expect me to go and ask that Yolande should be re- 
ceived at Lynn Towers ? I think not ! I don’t quite see 
my way to that yet.” 


^OLANDE, 


193 


“You needn’t be angry — ” 

“ But it is so absurd I ” he exclaimed. “ What have 
Winterbourne’s politics to do with Yolande? Supposing 
he wanted to blow up the House of Lords with dynamite, 
what has that got to do with her ? It is Burke’s Peerage 
that is at the bottom of all this nonsense. If every blessed 
copy of that book were burned out of the world, they 
wouldn’u have another word to say. It is the fear of see- 
ing ‘daughter of Mr. Winterbourne, M. P. for Slagpool,’ 
that is setting them crazy. That comes of living out of the 
world. ; that comes of being toadied by gillies and town 
councillors. But I am not going to trouble about it,” said 
he, with a sudden air of indifference. “ I am not going to 
make a fuss. They can go their way ; I can go mine.” 

“ Yes, and the Winterbournes will go theirs,” said his 
sister, sharply. 

“ Very well.” 

“ But it is not very well ; it is very ill. Come now, 
Archie, be reasonable. You know the trouble I had before 
I married Jim ; it was got over by a little patience and dis- 
cretion.” 

“ Oh, if you think I am going to cringe and crawl about 
for their consent, you are quite mistaken. I would not put 
Yolande Winterbourne into such a position. Why,” said 
he, with some sense of injury in his tone, “ I like the way 
they talk — as if they were asked to sacrifice something ! If 
there is any sacrifice in the case, it seems to me that I am 
making it, not they. I am doing what I think best for Lynn, 
that has always been starved for want of money. Very 
well ; if they don’t like it, they can leave it alone. I am not 
going to beg for any favor in the matter.” 

“ It might be as well not to talk of any sacrifice,” said 
his sister, quietly, and yet with some significance. “ I don’t 
tlunk there will be much sacrifice. Well, now, I’m ready, 
Archie : what have you brought — the dogcart ? ” 

“Yes.” 

Shortly thereafter they set out for Lynn ; and they did 
not resume this conversation ; for as .they had to climb the 
steep road leading into Glendoe, the Master got down and 
walked, leaving the reins to his sister. They passed through 
the deep woods, and up and out on to the open heights. They 
skirted the solitary little lake that lies in a mountain-cup 
up there. And then, in due time, they came in sight of the 


194 


VO LA iV DR 


inland country — a board and variegated }3lain, with here 
and there a farmhouse or village. 

They came in sight of something else too — the figure of 
a young woman who was coming along the road. Mrs. 
Graham’s eyes were fixed on that solitary person for some 
time before she exclaimed, — 

“ Archie, do you see who that is ? ” 

“ Of course I do,” said he, not with the best gra«;e. 

“ It is she, isn’t it? ” she said, eagerly. 

“ I suppose you can see that for yourself,” was the 
answer. 

“ Perhaps it isn’t the first time to-day that you have met 
her ? ” said she, looking up with a quick scrutiny. 

“ If you want to know, I have not set eyes on her since 
last Christmas. She has been living in Inverness.” 

He pulled up. This young lady whom they now stoppii*! 
to speak to was a good-looking girl of about twenty, with 
light brown hair and very dark b^lue eyes. There was some 
firmness and shrewdness of character in the face, despite 
the shyness that was also very visible there. For the rest, 
she was neatly dressed — in something of a town style. 

She merely nodded to tlie Master, w^ho took off his hat ; 
but as she was on Mrs. Graham’s side of the dog cart, slie 
shook hands with that lady, and her bright, fresh-colored 
upturned face had something of diffidence or self-conscious- 
ness in it. 

“ Oh, how do you do. Miss Stewart ? It is such a long 
time since I have seen you? ” said Mrs. Graham. 

“You do not come often to Lynn now, Mrs. Graham,” 
said Miss Stewart, with just a touch of a very pretty accent, 
“and I have been living in Inverness.” 

“ Oh, indeed. And how are the people at the manse? ” 

They chatted in the ordinary fashion for a few minutes, 
and then the Master of Lynn drove oh again — in silence. 
Mrs. Graham ventured to repeat, apparently to herself, 
though he must have overheard, 

“ And wandering with me o’er the hills, 

My own dear Shena Van ; ” 

but if h’e did overhear, he took no notice, and certainly he 
betrayed neither confusion nor annoyance. Perhaps the 
verses were not his, after ail ? The minister’s daughter 
was the belle of those parts ; she had had many admirers ; 


YOLANDE. 


195 


and the h.mrness Courier was the natural medium for the 
expression of tlieir woes. Still, Mrs. Graham asked herself 
how many people in the world knew of the existence of the 
Allt*cam-Ban, far away in the solitudes over Allt-nam-ba. 

Mrs. Graham, as it turned out, had a terrible time of it 
with her father. This short, thickset man with the volumi- 
nous brown and gray beard, shaggy eyebrows, and bald 
head surmounted by a black velvet skull-cap, was simply 
furious ; and so far from being affected in any degree by 
his daughter’s blandishments, he seemed inclined to direct 
his wrath upon her as the chief aider and* abettor of her 
brother’s high treason. Nor was his lordship’s language 
marked by much gentleness or reticence. 

“ The idea,” he exclaimed, “ that Dochfour, andLochiel, 
and Culloden, and the rest of them, might have to rub 
shoulders with a low, scoundrelly Radical! The mere 
chance of such a thing happening is monstrous.” 

“ I beg to remind you, papa,” said Mrs, Graham, with 
her face grown a little pale, “ that my husband is not in the 
habit of associating with low scoundrels of any kind. And 
I would rather not hear such things said about the father of 
my particular friend.” 

Then she saw that that line would not do. 

“ Papa,” she pleaded, “ a little civility costs nothing. 
Why should you not call? You must have known it was 
this Mr. Winterbourne wlio had taken the shooting when 
we telegraphed you from Malta.” 

“ I must have known ? I did know ! What has that to 
do with it ? I do not let my friendship with my shootings. 
What my tenant may be is nothing to me, so long as he 
can pay ; and he is weleome to everything he can find on 
the shooting ; but it does not follow he is entitled to sit 
down at my table, or that I shall sit down at his.” 

“But you were very kind to Yolande Winterbourne 
when she came up at first, and you knew whose daughter 
slie was,” pretty Mrs. Graham pleaded again. 

“ I did not know that that young jackass proposed to 
make her one of the family — it is too great an honor alto- 
gether.” 

“ You know, papa, it is such a pity to make trouble 
when it is not likely to help. Archie can marry whom he 
pleases — ” 

“ Let him, and welcome ! ” said this fierce old gentle* 


196 


YOLANDE. 


man. “ He can marry whom he pleases, but he cannot 
compel me to associate with his wife’s father.” 

She went away somewhat crestfallen, and sought out 
the Master, whom she found in one of the greenhouses. 

“Well?” said he, with a smile, for he had antici^iated 
the result. 

“ His lordship does seem opinionated about it,” she had 
to confess. “ And yet I think I could talk him over if only 
Aunt Colquhoun were absent. I suppose she will be back 
from Foyers by dinner-time.” 

“ I wish she* were sewn in a sack, and at the bottom of 
Loch Ness,” said he. 

“Archie, for shame! You see,” she added, thought- 
fully, “ I must get back to Fort Augustus by four to-morrow 
afternoon. And I haven’t come all this way without being 
resolved to see Yolande before I go. That leaves me little 
time. But still — . Have you asked Mr. Melville to speak 
to papa?” 

“No. Jack Melville and I nearly quarrelled over it, so 
I dropped the subject. He doesn’t understand matters, 
don’t you know, Polly ; he doesn’t understand what the 
improvement of a poor estate costs. He has forgotten his 
Horace — pennis non homini datis — that means that human 
beings aren’t born with enough money. He made quite a 
fuss when I showed him that there were prudential reasons 
for the match, as if there were any use in blinding one’s 
eyes to obvious facts. Well, I don’t care. I have done my 
best. My intentions toward ^nn were sincere and honor- 
able ; now they can make a hash of the whole thing if they 
like.” 

“ It is folly speaking like that,” his sister said, sharply. 
“ Surely you have too much spirit to yield to a little oppo- 
sition of this kind.” 

“A little opposition !” he said, with a laugh. “It’s 
about as bulky as Borlum Hill ; and I for one am not go- 
ing to ram my head against it. I prefer a quiet life.” 

“But you are bound in honor to Yolande Winter- 
bourne not to let the engagement cease,” she cried. “ Why, 
to think of such a thing ! You ask a girl to marry you ; 
she consents ; and then you throw her over because this 
person or that person objects. Well, I never beard of one 
of the Leslies acting that way before. I was only a girl, 
but I showed them what stuff 1 was made of when they 
tried to interfere with me.” 


YOLANDE. 


197 


“ Oil, but that’s different,” he said, coolly. “ Girls are 
romantic creatures. They rather like a shindy. Whereas 
men prefer a quiet life.” 

“ Well, I never heard the like of that — ” 

“Wait a minute. I am going to talk to you plainly, 
Polly,” said he. “ I wanted to marry Janet Stewart ; and 
I dare say she would have had me if I had definitely asked 

“ I dare say she would.” 

“ Oh, you think she hasn’t as much pride as anybody 
else because she is only a minister’s daughter ? That is 
all you know about her. However, they all made such a 
row, and you especially, that I consented to let the affair 
go. Xo doubt that was wise. I was young. She had no 
money, and Lynn wanted money. Very well. I made no 
objection. But you will observe, my dear Miss Polly, 
that when these stumbling-blocks are again and again put 
into the road, even the most patient of animals may begin 
to get fractious, and might even kick over the traces. At 
present I hope I am not in a rage. But 1 am older now 
than I was then, and not in the least bit inclined to be 
made a fool of.” 

“ And do you really mean to say,” said Mrs. Graham, 
with her pretty dark gray eyes regarding him with 'aston- 
ishment, “that you are deliberately prepared to jilt Yo- 
lande Winterbourne merely on account of this little diffi- 
culty ? ” 

“ It isn’t my doing,” said he. “ Besides, they seem bent 
on piling up about three cart-loads of difficulty. Life isn’t 
long enough to begin and shovel that away. And if they 
don’t want to have Corrievreak back, I dare say Sir John 
will be quite willing to keep it.” 

“ I don’t think I will speak to j^apa again until after 
dinner,” said she, musingly. “Tlien I will have another 
try — with Corrievreak.” 


198 


YOLANDE, 


CHAPTER XXV. 


THE AMBASSADOR. 


Now Jack Melville, or Melville of Monaglcn, as Mrs. 
Bell (with her own dark purposes always in view) proudly 
preferred to call him, had not only decided that the Mas- 
ter of Lynn should know that Yolande’s mother was alive, 
but he had also undertaken himself to tell him all the facts 
of the case, to Mr. Winterbourne’s great relief. Accord- 
ingly, one afternoon he gave the school-children a half- 
holiday, and walked over to Lynn. He met the Master at 
the wooden bridge adjoining Lynn Towers, and also the 
dog-cart conveying Mrs. Graham back to Fort Augustus. 

“ There she goes,” said young Leslie, sardonically, as 
he regarded the disappearing vehicle. “ She is a well-in- 
tentioned party. She thinks she can talk people over. 
She thinks that when people are in a temper they will lis- 
ten to common-sense. And she hasn’t even now learned a 
lesson. She thinks she would have succeeded with more 
time ; but of course she has to get back to Inverstroy. 
And she still believes she would have had her own way if 
she had had a day or tw'o to spare.” 

“ What is the matter ? ” 

“ Oh, nothing much,” said the other, carelessly. “ Only 
his lordship in a fury at the idea of my marrying the 
daughter of a Radical. And of course it isn’t the slightest 
use pointing out that Mr. Winterbourne’s Radicalism gen- 
erally consists in opposing what is really a Radical govern- 
ment ; and it isn’t the slightest use pointing out that poli- 
tics don’t run in the blood, and that Yolande has no more 
wish to destroy the British Constitution than I have. How- 
ever, what is the consequence? They can fight it out 
amongst themselves.” 

But Melville did not seem inclined to treat the matter 
in this offhand way. His thoughtful face was more grave 
than was its wont. After a second or two he said, — 

“ Look here, Archie, I have got something to say to you. 
Wi” ou walk along the strath a bit ? ” 



ou are going to try the loch?” said the Master, 


YOLAiYDE. 


199 


observing that liis companion had his fishing-rod under his 
arm. 

“ Yes, for an hour or so, if they are rising.” 

“ I will come and manage the boat for you, then,” said 
the other, good-naturedly. 

“ Then we can go on together to Allt-nam-Ba. You 
are dining there, I suppose.” 

“ Well, no,” said young Leslie, with a trifle of embar- 
rassment. 

“But I was told I should meet you.” 

“ I was asked. Well, you see, the lodge is small, and it 
isnT fair to overcrowd it, and give Yolande so much more 
Housekeeping trouble. Then Macpherson may come down 
from Inverness any afternoon almost to arrange about the 
Glendyerg march. We have come to a compromise about 
that — anytiiing is better than a lawsnit — and the gully just 
above the watcher’s bothy remains ours, which is the chief 
thing.” 

But Melville was not to be put off. He knew this 
young man. 

“ What it the real reason of your not going up to Allt- 
nam-Ba this evening? ” 

“ Well, I will tell you, if you want to know. The real 
reason is that my people have treated the Winterbournes 
badly, and I am ashamed of it, and I don’t want to go near 
the place more tlian I can help. If they imagine we are all 
very busy at Lynn, that may be some excuse for neither my 
father nor my aunt having had the common civility to call 
at the lodge. But I am afraid Mr. Winterbourne suspects 
the true state of affairs, and of course that puts me into 
rather a difficult position when I am at’ Allt-nam-Ba ; and 
when you see a difficult position before you, the best thing 
you can do is not to step into it.” 

“ And do you expect everything to be made smooth and 
comfortable for you ? ” said Melville, almost angrily. “ Don’t 
you expect to have any trouble at all in the world ? When 
you meet the difficulties of life, is your only notion to turn 
away and run from them ? ” 

“ Yes, as fast as I can and as far as I can. Look here. 
Jack, different people have different views: it doesn’:^ 
follow that you are right because you look at things not as 
I do. You think commom sense contemptible; I think 
Quixotism contemptible ; it cuts both ways, you see. I say 
distinctly that a man who accepts trouble when he can avoid 


200 


VOLANDE. 


it is an ass. I know there are lots of women who like woe, 
who relisli it and revel in it. There are lots of women who 
enjoy nothing so much as a funeral — the blinds all down, a 
mysterious gloom in the rooms, and weeping relations forti- 
fying themselves all day long against their grief by drinking 
glasses of muddy port wine and eating buns. Well, I don’t. 
I don’t like woe. I believe in what a young Scotch fello\\’ 
said to me one morning on board ship when we were on 
the way out — I think he was a bagman from Glasgow — at 
all events he came up to me with an air of profound con- 
viction on his face, and said, ‘ Man, it’s a seeckening tiling to 
be seeck ! ’ Well, that is the honest way of looking at it. 
And although I am arguing not so much with you as 
with Polly, still I may as well say to you what I said to 
lier when she wanted me to do this, that, and the other 
thing: ‘ No ; if those people don’t see it would be to their 
interest and to everybody’s interest that this marriage should 
take place, they are welcome to their opinion. I sha’n’t in- 
terfere. I don’t mean to have any domestic squabble if I 
can help it. I prefer a quiet life.’ ” 

By this time they had reached the boat, which they 
dragged down to the water and shoved off, the Master of 
Lynn good-naturedly taking the oars. Xt was a pleasant, 
warm afternoon, and it looked a likely afternoon for fishing 
besides ; but it was in a very silent and absent fashion that 
Jack Melville put his rod together and began to look over 
his casts. This speech of the young Master’s was no reve- 
lation to him ; he had known all that before. But, coming 
in just at this moment, it seemed to make the task he had 
undertaken more and more difficult and dangerous ; and 
indeed there flashed across his mind once or twice some 
wild doubt as to the wisdom of his decision, although that 
decision had not been arrived at without long and anxious 
consideration. 

And it was in a very perfunctory way that he began to 
throw out the flies upon the water, insomucli that one or 
two rises he got he missed through carelessness in striking. 
In any case the trout were not rising freely, and so at length 
he said, — 

“ Archie, would you mind rowing over to the other side ? 
One of the shepherds sent me word that the char have cnme 
there, and Miss Winterbourne has never seen one. I only 
want one or two to show her what they are like ; I don’t 
suppose they will be worth cooking just now.” 


YOLANDE. 


201 


“ But you have no bait.” 

“ I can manage with the fly, I think.” 

And so they rowed away across the pretty loch on this 
placid afternoon; the while Melville took off the cast he had 
been using, substituting three sea-trout flies of the most 
brilliant hues. Then, when they had got to the other side, 
Melville made for a part of the shore where the banks 
seemed to go very sheer down ; and then proceeded to 
throw the flies over a particular part of the water, allowing 
them slowly to sink. It was an odd sort of fly-fishing, if it 
could be described as fly-fishing at all. For after the cast 
had been allowed to sink some couple of yards or so, 
the flies were slowly and cautiously trailed along; then 
there was a curious sensation as if an eel were swallowing 
something at the end of the line — very different from the 
quick snap of a trout — and then, as he carefully wound in 
the reel there appeared in the water a golden-yellow thing, 
not fighting for its life as a trout would, but slowly, oilily 
circling this way and that until a scoop of the small landing- 
net brought the lethargic, feebly flopping, but beautifully 
golden-and-red-spotted fisli into the boat. When he had 
got the two that he wanted he had done wdth that : it was 
not sport. And then he sat down in the stern of the boat, 
and his rod was idle. 

“ Archie,” said he, “ there is something better in you than 
you profess.” 

“ Oh, come,” said the other, “ char-fishing isn’t exciting, 
but it is better than a lecture.” 

“This is serious,” said the other, quietly; “you your- 
self will admit that when I tell you.” 

And then, very cautiously at first, and rather in a round- 
about way, he told him the whole sad story, begging him 
not to interrupt until he had finished, and trying to invoke 
the young man’s pity and sympathy for what those people 
had suffered, and trying to put their action in a natural 
light, and trying to make clear their motives. Who was to 
blame — the indiscreet sister who had invented the story, or 
the foolishly affectionate father wlio could not confess the 
truth — he would not say ; he would rather turn to consider 
what they had attempted and succeeded in securing — what 
the beautiful child-nature of this girl should grow up un- 
tainted with sorrow and humiliation and pain. 

The Master of Lynn heard him patiently to the end, 


202 


YOLANDE. 


without any expression of surprise or any otlier emotion. 
Then he said, — 

“ I suppose, Jack, you have been asked to tell me all 
this ; most likely you are expected to take an answer. Well 
my answer is clear. Nothing in the world would induce 
me to have anything to do with such a system, or con 
spiracy, or whatever it may be called. You may think tlic 
incurring of all this suffering is fine ; I think it is folly, 
but that is not the point. I am not going to judge them. 
I have to decide for myself, and I tell you frankly 1 am not 
such a fool as to bring any skeleton into my cupboard. I 
don’t want my steps dogged ; I don’t want to have to look 
at the morning paper with fear'. If I had married and 
found this out afterward, I should have said I had been 
grossly deceived ; and now, with my eyes open, I consider 
I should be behaving very badly toward my family if I let 
them in for the possibility of any scandal or disgrace.” . 

“ Why, man, how could there be any such thing? ’’Mel- 
ville exclaimed ; but he was interrupted. 

“ I let you have your say ; let me have mine. There is 
no use beating about the bush. I can have nothing to do 
with any such thing ; I am not going to run the risk of any 
public scandal while it can be avoided.” 

What would you do, then, if you were in Winter- 
bourne’s position?” 

“ What would I do ? What I would not do would be to 
incur a life-long martyrdom, all for a piece of sentimental 
folly.” 

“ But what would you do ? I want to know what you 
would do.” 

“ I would lock the woman up in a lunatic asylum. Cer- 
tainly I would. Why should such a system of terrorism be 
permitted ? It is perfectly absurd.” 

“ You cannot lock her up in a lunatic asylum unless 
she is a lunatic, and the poor creature does not seem to be 
that — not yet, at least.” 

“ I would lock her up in a police cell, then.” 

“ And would that preyent exposure ? ” 

“ At all events, it would prevent her going down and 
lying in wait for him in Westrnister Palace Yard. But that 
is not the point. It is not what I would do in his place , 
it is what I am going to do in my own. And that is clear 
enough. I have had enough bother about this business i 
I am not going to have any more. I am not going to have 


an}' secrets and mysteries. I am not going to submit to 
any terrorism. Before I marry Yolande Wintei’bourne all 
that affair of that lunatic creature must be arranged, and 
arranged so that every one may know of it without fear 
and trembling and dissimulation.” 

“ The message is difinite,” said Melville, absently, as his 
companion took up the oars and began to row across to the 
other side of the loch. 

It was characteristic of this man that he should now 
begin and try to look at this declaration from young Les- 
lie’s point of view, and endeavor to convince himself of its 
reasonableness ; for he had a general wish to approve of 
people and their ways and opinions, having in the long-run 
found that that was the most comfortable way of getting 
along in the world. And this that the Master had just said 
was, regarded from his own position, distinctly reasonable. 
There could be no doubt that Mr. Winterbourne had had 
his life preverted and tortured mainly through his trying to 
hide this secret from his daughter ; and it was but natural 
that a young man should be unwilling to have his own life 
clouded over in like manner. Even John Shorthands had 
not sought to defend his friend when he told the story to 
Melville. As for himself — that is, Melville — well, he could 
not honestly approve of what Mr. Winterbourne had done 
— except when he heard Yolande laugh. 

They rowed over to the other side in silence, and there 
got out. 

“ I hojDe I did not use any harsh terms. Jack,” the 
young man said. “ But the thing must be made clear.” 

“ I have been w'ondering,” said the other, “ whether it 
would not have been better if I had held my tongue. I 
don’t see how either you or your wife could ever have heard 
of it.” 

“ I think it would. have been most dishonorable of you 
to have known that and to have kept it back from me.” 

“ Oh, you do ?” 

“ Most distinctly I do.” 

“ There is some^consolation in that. 1 thought I was 
perhaps acting the ])art of an idle busybody, who generally 
only succeeds in making mischief.' And I have been won- 
dering what is the state of the law. I really don’t know. 
I don’t know whether a magistrate would consider the con- 
sumption of those infernal drugs to be drunkenness ; and I 


204 


YOLAMDE. 


don’t even know whether you can compulsorily keep in 
confinement one who is a confirmed drunkard.” 

“ You may very well imagine that I don’t want to have 
anything to do wdth police courts and police magistrates, 
or with lunatic asylums either when I get married,” said 
young Leslie, when they had pulled the boat up on the 
bank. “ But this I am sure of, that you can always get 
sufficient protection from the law from annoyances of that 
sort, if you choose to appeal to it. On the other hand, if 
you don’t, if you try to shelter people from having their 
deserts, if you go in for private and perfectly hopeless 
remedies, then you have to stand the consequences, I de- 
clare to you that nothing would induce me to endure for 
even a week the anxiety that seems to have haunted Win- 
terbourne for years and years.” 

But then ho is so desperately fond of Yolande, you 
see,” Jack Melville said, with a glance. 

Leslie flushed slightly. 

“ I think you are going too far.” 

“ Oil, I hope not. I only stated a fact. Come, now, 
Archie,” he said, in his usual friendly way, “ call your 
common-sense to you, that you are so proud of. You know 
I feel myself rather responsible. 1 don’t want to think I 
have made any mischief — ” 

“ You have made no mischief. I say you would have 
acted most dishonorably if you had kept this back.” 

“ Well, now, take a rational view of the situation. No 
doubt you are vexed and annoyed by the opposition at home. 
That is natural. No one likes his relatives to object when 
he knows that he has the right and the power to choose for 
himself. But don’t transfer your annoyance over that 
matter to this, which is quite different. Consider yourself 
married, and living at Allt-nam-Ba or at Lynn ; how can 
the existence of tliis poor creature effect you in any way ? 
And, moreover, the poor woman can not live long — ” 

“ She might live long enough to break some more 
windows, and get everybody’s name into the paper,” said 
he. “ You don’t suppose we should always be living in the 
Highlands ? ” 

“ I want you to come along with me now to the lodge ; 
and you can say that, after all, you found you could come 
to dinner — there never were people so charmingly free from 
ceremony of anj kind ; and after dinner you will tell Mr 
Winterbourne that certainly you vourself might not hav9 


YOLANDE. 


205 


been prepared to do what he has done during these years 
for Yolande’s sake, and perhaps that you could not approve 
of it ; but that for the short time likely to elapse you would 
be content also to keep silence ; and you might even un- 
dertake to live in the Highlands until death should remove 
that poor creature and all possible source of annoyance. 
That would be a friendly, natural, humane sort of thing to 
do, and he would be grateful to you. You owe him a 
little. He'is giving you his only daughter ; and you need 
not be afraid — he will make it easy for you to buy back 
Corrievreak and do all the other things you were speaking 
of. I think you might do that.” 

“ Midsummer madness ! ” the other exclaimed, with 
some show of temper. “ I can’t imagine how you could ex- 
pect such a thing. Our family is old enough to be haunted 
by a ghost, and we haven’t started one yet ; but when we 
do start one, it won’t be a police-court sort of ghost, I can 
assure you. It is hard luck when one of one’s own relatives 
goes to the bad — I’ve seen that often enough in families ; 
but voluntarily to take over some one’s relative who has 
gone to the bad, without even the common protection of 
the policeman and the magistrate — no, thanks ! ” 

“ Then that is your message, I suppose.” 

“ Most distinctly. I am not going into any conspiracy 
of secrecy and terrorism — certainly not. I told you that I 
liked a quiet life. I am not going to bother about other 
people’s family affairs — assuredly I am not going to submit 
to any persecution or any possibility of persecution, how- 
ever remote, about them.” 

“ Very well.” 

“Don’t put it harshly. I wish to be reasonable. I say 
they have been unreasonable and foolish, and I don’t want 
to involve myself in the consequences. When I marry, I 
surely must have, as every human being in the country has, 
the right to appeal to the law. I cannot have my mouth 
cragged by their absurd secrets.” 

“ Very well.” 

“ And I fancy,” the Master of Lynn added, as his eye- 
caught a figure that had just come in sight, far away up 
the strath, “that that is Yolande Winterbourne herself. 
You need not say that I had seen her before i left.” And 
go he turned and walked away in the direction of Lynn 
Towers. 

And was this indeed Yolande? Well, he would meet 


206 


YOLANDE. 


her with an unclouded face, for she was quick to observe ^ 
and all his talk would be about the golden char, and the 
beautiful afternoon, and the rubber of whist they sometimes 
had now after dinner. And yet he was thinking. 

“ I wonder if my way would do,” he was saying to him- 
self as he still regarded that advancing figure. “ Perhaps it 
is Quixotic, as Archie would say. Statistics are against 
me, and statistics are horribly sure things, but sometimes 
they don’t apply to individual cases. Perhaps. I have no 
business to interfere. No matter ; this evening at least she 
shall go home to dinner with a light heart. She does not 
know that I am going to give her my Linnoea borealis.'’^ 

The tall figure now advancing to him was undoubtedly 
that of Yolande, and he guessed that she was smiling. She 
had brought out for a run the dogs that had been left in the 
kennel ; they were chasing all about the hillside and the 
road in front of her. The light of the sunset was on her 
face. 

“ Good-evening, Miss Winterbourne,” said he, when they 
met. 

“But I am going to ask you to call me Yolande,” said 
she, quite frankly and simply, as she turned to walk back 
with him to Allt-nam-Ba ; “ for I have not many friends, 
and I like them all to call me Yolande.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A WALK HOME. 

“ But was not that Mr. Leslie ? ” she said. 

“ Oh yes, it was,” he answered, with an assumed air of 
indifference. “ Yes. It is a pity he cannot dine with you 
this evening.” 

“ But why did he not come along now, for a minute 
even, when he was so far ? ” 

She certainly was surprised, and there was nothing foi 
him but to adopt the somewhat lame excuses that the Master 
in the first instance had offered him. 

“ I think he is expecting a lawyer from Inverness,” said 
he, ratlier quickly slurring over the various statements, 


YOLANDE, 


207 


“ and if he came by the afternoon boat he would be due just 
about now. They have a good deal of business on hand 
just now at Lynn.” 

“ Yes, apparently that is true,” she said, with ratlier a 
singular gesture — very slight, but significant. “We have 
not seen anything of them.” 

“ Well, you see,” he continued, in the most careless and 
cheerful way, “no doubt they know your father is occupied 
with the shooting, and you with your amateur housekeeping 
— which I am told is perfect. Mr. Shortlands says the lodge 
is beautifully managed.” 

“Ah, does he?” said she, with a quick flush of genuine 
pleasure. “ I am glad to hear that. Ah, it is very simple 
now — oh yes, for they are all so diligent and punctual. And 
now I have more and more time for my botany, and I am 
beginning to understand a little more of the arrangement, 
and it is interesting,” 

“I consider you have done very well,” said he — “so well 
that you deserve a reward.” 

“ Ah, a prize ? ” said she, with a laugh. “ Do you give 
prizes at your school ? Well now — let me see — what shall I 
choose ? A box of chocolates.” 

“Did they allow you to choose your own prizes at 
Chateau Cold Floors ? We don’t do that here. No ; the 
reward I have in store for you is the only specimen I have 
got of the lAnnma borealis — the only plant tliat bears the 
name of the great master himself, and such a beautiful plant 
too ! I don't think you are likely to find it abou-t here. E 
got mine at Clova ; but you can get everything at Clova.” 

“ It is so kind of you ! ” she said ; “ but what am I to do 
with it ? ” 

“ Start a herbarium. You ought to have plenty of time ; 
if not, get up an hour earlier. You have a fine chance here 
of getting the Alpine species. I have got some fresh boards 
and drying-paper down from Inverness ; and I meant to lend 
you my hand-press ; but then I thought I might want it 
myself for some other purpose ; and as Mrs. Bell was glad to 
h we the chance of presenting you with one, I said she might ; 
it will down from Inverness to-morrow.” 

“ But I cannot accept so much kindness — ” she was 
about to protest, when he interrupted her. 

“You must,” he said simply. “When jieople are in- 
clined to be civil and kind to you, you have no right to 
snub them.” 


208 


YOLANDE. 


Suddenly she stopped short and faced him. There wag 
a kind of mischief in her eyes. 

“ Will you have the same answer,” she asked, slowly, 
and with her eyes fixed on him, “ when Mrs. Bell presents 
to you Monaglen ? ” 

Despite himself a flush came over the pale, handsome 
features. 

“ That is absurd,” said he quickly. “ That is impossible. 

I know the Master jokes about it. If Mrs. Bell has any 
wild dreams of the kind — ” 

“If she lias,” Yolande said, gravely, “ if she wishes to 
be civil and kind, you have no right to snub her.” 

“ You have caught me, I confess it,” he said, with a 
good-natured laugh, as they resumed their walk along the 
wide strath. “ But let us get back to the sphere of prac- 
tical politics.” 

He then proceeded to give her instructions about the 
formation of a herbarium ; and in this desultory conversa- 
tion she managed very plainly to intimate to him that she 
would not have permitted him to take so much trouble had 
this new pursuit of hers been a mere holiday amusement. 
No; she hoped to make something more serious of it ; and 
wmuld it not be an admirable occupation for her when she 
finally came to live in these wilds, where occupations were 
not abundant? And he (with his mind distraught by all 
sorts of anxieties) had to listen to her placidly talking 
about her future life there, as if that were to be all very 
plain sailing indeed. She knew of no trouble; and she 
was not the one to anticipate trouble. Her chief regret at 
present was that her botanizing (at least so far as the col- 
lection of plants was concerned) would cease in the winter ! ” 

“ But you cannot live up here in the winter ! ” he ex- 
claimed. 

“ Why not?” 

“ You would be snowed up.” 

“ Could anything be more delightful than that ? ” she 
said. “ Oh, I see it all before me — like a Christmas picture. 
Big red fires in the rooms; outside, the sunlight on the 
snow, the air cold and clear, and papa going away over the 
hard, sparkling hills to shoot the ptarmigan and the white 
hares. Don’t you know, then, that papa will take Allt- 
nam-Ba for all the year round when I come to live here? 
And if Duncan, the keeper, can live very well in the bothy, 


XOLANDE. 


209 


why not we ill the lodge! Oh, I assure you it will be 
ravishing.” 

“ No, no, no ; you could not attempt such a thing,” he 
said. “ Why the strath might be quite impassable with 
the snow. You might be cut off from the rest of the world 
for a fortnight or three weeks. You would starve.” 

“ Perhaps, then, you never heard of tinned meats? ” she 
said, with an air of superiority. 

No, no ; the people about here don’t do like that. Of 
course in the winter you would naturally go in to Inverness, 
or go south to Edinburgh, or perhaps have a house in Lon- 
don.” 

“ Oh no, tha’t is what ray papa would never, never per- 
mit — anything but London.” 

“ Well, then, Inverness is a pleasant and cheerful town. 
And I must say this for the Master, that he is not at all 
likely to prove an absentee landlord, when his turn comes. 
He is quite as diligent as his father in looking after the 
estate; there won't be any reversal of policy when he suc- 
ceeds, as sometimes happens.” 

“ Inverness ? ” said she, wistfully. “ Yes ; perhaps In- 
verness — perhaps here — that is what my papa would prefer ; 
but London — ah, no ! And sometimes I think he is so 
sadly mistaken about me — it is his great affection, I know 
— but he thinks if I were in London I would hear too much 
of the attacks they make on him, and I might read the 
stupidities they put into the newspapers about him. He is 
so afraid of my being annoyed^ — oh, I know, for himself he 
does not care — it is all me, me — and the trouble he will 
take to watch against small annoyances that might hap})en 
to me, it is terrible and pitiable, only it is so kind. Why 
should I not go to tlie House of Commons ? Do they think 
I care about their stupidities ? I know they are angry be- 
cause they have one man among them who will not be the 
slave of any party — who will not be a — a cipher, is it ? — in 
a crowd — an atom in a majority — no, but who wishes to, 
speak what he thinks is true.” 

“ Oh, but, Yolande,” said he (venturing thus to address 
her for the first time), “ I want you to tell me ; do you ever 
feel annoyed and vexed when you see any attack on your 
father ? ” 

She hesitated ; she did not like to confess. 

“It is a natural thing to be annoyed when you see 
stupidities of malice and spitefulness,” she said, at length — 


210 


yOLAJK'DE. 


with tlie fair freckled face a shade warmer in color than 
usual. 

“ For I can give you a panacea for all such wounds, or 
rather an absolute shield against them.” 

“ Can you — can you ? ” she said, eagerly. 

“Oh, yes,” he said, in that carelessly indifferent way of 
his. “ When you see anybody pitching into your father, 
in the House or in a newspaper, all you have to do is to re- 
call a certain sonnet of Milton's. You should bear it about 
with you in your mind; there is a fine wholesome tone of 
contempt in it; and neither persons in public life nor their 
relatives should have too great a respect for other ])eople’s 
opinions. It is not wholesome. It begets sensitiveness. 
You should always consider that your opponents are — • 
are — ” 

Ames de houe ! said Yolande, fiercely. “That is 
what I think when I see what they say of my papa.” 

“ But I don’t think you would feel so much indignation 
as that if you would carry about this sonnet with you in 
your memory : — 

‘“I did but prompt the age to quit their clogs 
By the known rules of ancient liberty, 

When straight a barbarous noise environs me 
Of owls, and cuckoos, asses, apes, and dogs ; 

As when those hinds that were transformed to frogs 
Railed at Latona’s twin-born progeny. 

Which after held the Sun and Moon in fee. 

But this is got by casting pearls to hogs. 

That bawl for freedom in their senseless mood. 

And still revolt when Truth would set them free. 

License they mean when they cry Liberty ; 

For who loves that must first be wise and good ; 

But from that mark how far they rove we see, 

For all this jvaste of wealth and loss of blood. ” 

There is a good, honest, satisfactory, wholesome con- 
tempt in it.” 

“Yes, yes; will you write it down for me?” said she, 
quickly and gratefully. “ Will you write it down for me 
when we get to the lodge ? ” 

“ If you like.” 

Wlien they drew near to the lodge, however, they found 
that something very unusual was going forward. The 
whole of tlie women-servants, to begin witii, w'ere outside, 
and gazing intently in the direction of a hillside just above 
tlie confluence of the Dun Water and the Crooked Water, 


YOLANDIi. 


211 


while the pretty Tlighlmid cook was asserting something or 
other in strenuous terms. Tlie moment they saw Yolande 
those young people fled into the house, like so many scurry- 
ing rabbits ; but Sandy, the groom, being over near the 
kennel, did not hear, and remained perched up on the fence, 
using an opera-glass which he had filched from the dining 
room mantelpiece. Yolande went over to him (as she had 
to kennel up the dogs in any case), and said to him, — 

“ What is the matter, Sandy? ” 

He very nearly dropped with fright, but instantly recov- 
ered himself, and said, with great excitement : — 

“I think they are bringing home a stag, madam ; I am 
sure that is it. I was seeing the powny taken down to 
cross the burn ; and it was not the panniers that was on 
him ; and there is the chentlemen standing by the bridge, 
looking.” 

There certainly was a small group of figures standing 
on the further side of that distant bridge — a slim little struct- 
ure slung on wires, and so given to oscillation that only one 
person could cross at a time. This performance, indeed, 
was now carefully going on ; but what had become of the 
pony? Presently they saw something appear on the top of 
the bank on this side of the stream. 

“ It is a stag undoubtedly, Yolande,” Jack Melville said, 
(he had got liold of the opera-glass) “ and I should say a 
good one. Now how could that have come about? Never 
mind, I dare say your father will be deliglited enough, and 
I should say Duncan will tune up his pipes this evening.” 

Yolande looked through the glass, and was very much 
excited to see that small pony coming home with its heavy 
burden ; but the gentlemen Avere now invisible, having 
passed behind a hillock. And so she sped into the house, 
fearful that the curiosity of the women-servants. might 
have let affairs get behindhand, and determined that every- 
thing should be in readiness for the home-coming sports- 
men. 

Melville was left outside ; and as he regarded now the 
gillie leading the pony, and now the party of people who 
were visible coming over the hillock, it was not altogether 
of the dead stag that he was thinking. In this matter of the 
Master of Lynn he had only performed his thankless duty 
as messenger, as it were ; still, it was not pleasant to have 
to bring back bad news. Sometimes he wished he had had 
nothing Avhatever to do with the whole complication : then, 


212 


YO LANDS. 


aLcain, he reminded himself that that secret Iiad becm com 
tided to him by John Shortlands unsolicited ; and that he, 
Melville, had subsequently done what he honestly thought 
best. And then he turned to think about Yolande. Would 
he grudge anything he could do for that beautiful child- 
nature — to keep it clear and bright and peaceful? No, he 
could not. And then he thought, with something of a sigh, 
that those who were the lucky ones in this world did not 
seem to place much value on the prizes that lay within their 
hands’ reach. 

The corpulent John Shortlands, as he now came proudly 
along, puffed and blowing and breathless, clearly showed by 
his radiant face who had shot the stag ; and at once he 
plunged into an account of the affair for the benefit of Jack 
Melville. He roundly averred that no such “ fluke ” was 
known in English history. They were not out after any 
stag. No stag had any right to be there. They had passed 
up that way in the morning with the dogs. Nor could this 
have been the wounded stag that the shepherds had seen 
drinking out of the Allt-corrie-an-eich some four days ago. 
No ; this must have been some wandering stag that had got 
startled out of some adjacent forest, and had taken refuge 
in the glen just as the shooting party were coming back 
from the far tops. Duncan had proposed to have a try for 
a few black-game when they came down to these woods ; 
and so, by great good luck, John Shortlands had put a No. 
4 cai-tridge in his left barrel, just in case an old blackcock 
should get up wild. Then he was standing at his post, when 
suddenly he heard a pattering ; a brown animal appeared 
with head high and horns thrown back ; the next instant it 
passed him, not more than fifteen yards off, and he blazed 
at it — in his nervousness with the right barrel ; then he saw 
it stumble, only for a second ; then on it went again, he after 
it, down to the burn, which fortunately was rushing, fed 
with the last night’s rain ; in the bed of the stream it stum- 
bled again and fell, and as it struggled out and up the op- 
posite bank, there being now nothing but the breadth of the 
burn between him and it, he took more deliberate aim, fired, 
and the stag fell back stone-dead, its head and hoi ns, in- 
deed, remaining partly in the water. 

Then Mr. Winterbourne, when he came along, seemed 
quite as honestly pleased at this unexpected achievement as 
if the stag had fallen to his own gun ; while as for Duncan, 
the grim satisfaction on his face was sufficient testimony. 


YOLANDE. 


213 


“This is something like a good day’s work,” said he. 
“ And I was. bringing down the stag for Miss Winterbourne 
to see it before the dark, and now "Peter will take back the 
powny for the panniers.” 

But Jack Melville took occasion to say to him aside, — 

“ Duncan, Miss Winterbourne will look at the head and 
horns when you have had time to take a sponge or a wet 
cloth to them, don’t you understand? — later on in the even- 
ing, perhaps.” 

“Very well, sir. And I suppose the gentleman will be 
sending in the head to Mr. Macleay’s to-morrow? It is not 
a royal, but it is a very good head whatever.” 

“ How many points — ten ? ” 

“ Yes, sir. It is a very good head whatever.” 

Yolande had so effectively hurried up everything inside 
the lodge that when the gentlemen appeared for dinner it 
was they who were late, and not the dinner. And of course 
she was greatly delighted also, and all the story of the cap- 
ture of the stag had to be told over again, to the minutest 
points. And again there was a fierce discussion as to who 
should have the head and horns, John Shortlands being 
finally compelled to receive the trophy which naturally be- 
longed to him. Then a wild skirl outside in the dark. 

“ What is that, now ? ” said John Shortlands. 

“ That,” said Yolande, complacently — for she had got 
to know something of these matters — “ is the pibroch of 
Donald Dim.” . 

“ That is the pibroch of Donald Black, I suppose,” said 
John Shortlands, peevishly. “What the mischief have I to 
do with Donald JBlack ? I want the Pibroch of John Short- 
lands. What is the use of killing a stag if you have to have 
somebody else’s pibroch played? If ever I rent a deer for- 
est in the Highlands, I will have my own pibroch made for 
me, if I pay twenty pounds for it.” 

Indeed, as it turned out, there was so much joy diffused 
throughout this household by the slaying of the stag that 
Jack Melville, communing with himself, decided that his ill 
news might keep. He would take some other opportunity 
of telling Shortlands the result of his mission. Why destroy 
his very obvious satisfaction ? It was a new experience for 
him ; he had never shot a stag before. The cup of his hap- 
piness was full to the brim, and nobody grudged it him, for 
he was a sound-hearted sort of man. 

One rather awkward incident arose, however, out of this 


y OLAJVDE. 


zu 

stag episode. In the midst of their dinner talk Yolaude 
suddenly said, — 

“ Papa, ought I to stnd a haunch of venison to Lynn 
Towers ? It seems so strange to have neighbors, and not 
any compliment one way or the other. Should I send a 
haunch of venison to Lord Lynn ? ” 

Her father seemed somewhat disturbed. 

“ Ho, no, Yolande ; it would seem absurd to send a 
haunch of venison to a man who has a deer forest of his 
own.” 

“ But it is let.” 

“Yes, I know; but no doubt the tenant will send in a 
haunch to the Towers if there is any occasion.” 

“But I know he does’not, for Archie said so. Mr. Mel- 
ville,” she said, shifting the ground of her appeal, “ would 
it not be a nice compliment to pay to a neighbor. Is it not 
customary?” 

His eyes had been fixed on the table ; he did not raise 
them. 

“ I — ^I don’t think I would,” said he, with some little 
embarrassment. “You don’t know what fancies old people 
might take. And you will want the venison for yourselves. 
Besides, Mr. Shortlands shot the stag ; you should let him 
have a haunch to send to his friends in the south.” 

“ Oh, yes, yes, yes, certainly,” she cried, clapping her 
hands. “ Why did I not think of it? That will ^le much 
better.” 

At another time John Shortlands might have protested, 
but something in Melville’s manner struck him, and he did 
not contend that the haunch of venison should be sent to 
Lynn Towers. 

After dinner they went out into the dark, and, guided 
by the sound of the pipes, made their way to the spacious 
coach-house, which they found had been cleared out, and 
in which they found two of the gillies and two of the shej)- 
herds — great, huge, red-bearded, brawny men — dancing a 
four-some reel, while Duncan was playing as if he meant to 
send the roof off. The head and horns of the deer were 
hung up on one of the pillars of the loose box. The place 
was ruddily lit up by two lamps, as well as a few candles; 
there was a small keg of wliiskey in a dim corner. And 
Yolande thought that the Higliland girls might just as well 
come over from the lodge (the English Jane was of no use), 
and very soon the dancing party was made much more 


YOLANDE. 


215 


picturesque. But where was the Master Lynn, with the 
torchlight dance he had promised them on the occasion of 
their killing their first stag ? 

When Jack Melville was going away that night he was 
surprised to find the dog-cart outside, Sandy in his livery, 
the lamps lit, and warm rugs on the front seat. 

“ This is not for me ? ” he said. 

“ It is, indeed,” said Yolande. 

“ Oh, but I must ask you to send it back. It is nothing 
for me to walk to Gress. You have enough work for your 
horses just now.” 

“The night is dark,” she said, “and 1 wish you to 
drive ; you will have the light of the lamps.” 

“ Why should I drive — to Gress ! ” he said. 

“ But I wish it,” she answered. 

And that was enough. 


CHAPTER XXYII. 

DANGER. 

It might have appeared to any careful observer, who 
also knew all the circumstances of the case, that what was 
now happening, or about to happen, away up in those 
remote solitudes, was obvious enough ; but certainly no 
suspicion of any such possibilities had so far entered the 
minds of the parties chiefly interested. Yolande regarded 
her future as already quite settled. That was over and 
done with. Her French training had taught her to acqui- 
esce in any arrangement that seemed most suitable to those 
who hitherto had guided her destiny, and as she had never 
experienced any affection stronger than her love for her 
father, so she did not perceive the absence of any such pas- 
sion. To English eyes her marriage might seem a mariage 
de complaisance^ as Colonel Graham had styled it ; in her 
eyes it seemed everything that was natural and proper and 
fitting, and she was quite content. It never occurred to her 
to analyze the singular satisfaction she always felt in the 
society of this new friend — the sense of safety, trust, 
guidance, and reliance with which he inspired her. He 


*216 


YOLANDE. 


claimed a sort of schoolmasterish authority over her, ana 
she yielded ; sometimes, it is true, re-assevting her inde- 
pendence by the use of feminine wiles and coquetries which 
were as natural as the scamperings of a young rabbit or the 
rustling of the leaves of a tree, but more ordinarily submit- 
ting to his dictation and government with a placid and 
amused sense of security ; while as for him, had he dreamed 
that he was stealing away the affections of his friend’s 
chosen bride he would have fled from the spot on the 
instant, with shame and ignominy haunting him. But row 
could such an idea present itself to him? He looked on 
her as one already set apart. She belonged to the Master 
of Lynn. As his friend’s future wife he hoped she also 
would be his friend. He admired her bright spirits, her 
cheerfulness, and frankness; but it was this very frankness 
(added to his own blunt disregard of conventionalities) 
that was deceiving them both. Five minutes after she had 
asked him to call her Tolande she was talking to him of 
her future home and her married life, and she was as ready 
to take his advice in that direction as in the direction of 
drying plants and setting up a herbarium. And if some- 
times she reversed their relations, and took to lecturing 
him on liis unwise ways at Gress — his carelessness about 
his meals, and so forth — why, then he humored her, and 
considered her remonstrances as only an exhibition of 
friendly interest, perhaps with a trifle of gratitude added, 
for he knew very well that he had spent a good deal of 
time in trying to be of service to her. 

Then, at this particular moment, everything seemed to 
conspire toward that end which neither of them foresaw. 
Yolande found tlie domestic arrangements at Allt-nam-Ba 
flow very easily and smoothly, so that practically she had 
the bulk of the day at her own disposal, and Gress was a 
convenient halting-place when she went for a drive, even 
when she had no particular message or object in view. 
But very frequently she bad a distinct object in view, which 
led to her sending on the dog-cart to Foyers and awaiting 
its return. On the very morning, for example, after Jack 
Melville had dined with them, she got the following letter, 
which had been brought out from Whitebridge late the 
night before. The letter was from Mrs. Bell, and the hand- 
writing was singularly clear and precise for a woman now 
over sixty, who had for the most part educated herself. 


YOLANDE, 


217 


“ Gress, Wednesday 

“ My dear young Lady, — Excuse my forwardness in 
sending you a letter ; but I thought you would like to 
the good news. The lawyers write to me from Edinburgh 
that young Mr. Fraser is now come of age, and that the 
trustees are now willing to sell the Monaglen estate, if they 
can get enough for it. This is what I have looked forward 
to for many’s the day; but we must not be too eager like : 
the lawyers are such keen bodies, and I have not saved up 
my scraps to feed their pigs. I think I would like to go to 
Edinburgh myself, if it was not that they lasses would let 
everything go to rack and ruin, and would have no sense 
to study Mr. Melville’s ways ; the like of them for glaiket 
hussies is not in the land. But I would greatly wish to 
see you, dear young lady, if you will honor me so far, before 
I go to Edinburgh, for I can not speak to Mr. Melville 
about it, and I do not wish to go among they lawyers with 
only my own head to guide me. I am, your Immble servant, 

“ Christina Bell.” 

Yolande laughed when she got this letter, partly with 
pure joy over the great good fortune which was likely 
to befal her friend, and partly at the humor of the notion 
that she should be consulted about the conveyancing of an 
estate. However, she lost no time in making her ])repara- 
tions for driving down to Gress, and indeed the dog-cart, 
had already been ordered to take some game into Foyers, 
and also the stag’s head destined for Mr. Macleay. Yolande 
saw that everything was right, got a brace of grouse and 
a hare for Mrs. Bell, and then set out to drive away 
down the strath, on this changing, gloomy, and windy day 
that had streaked the troubled surface of the loch with 
long white lines of foam. 

She found Mrs. Bell much excited, but still scarcely 
daring to talk above a whisper, while from time to time she 
glanced at the laboratory, as if she feared Mr. Melville would 
come out to surprise them in the discussion of this dark 
secret. 

“He is notin the schoolhouse, ■ then ? ” Yolande said. 

“ Not the now. Ye see, the young lad, Dalrymple, that 
he got from Glasgow College is doing very well now, and 
Mr^ Melville is getting to be more and more his own maister. 
He canna aye be looking after they bairns ; and if we could 
get jMonaglen for him, who could exiject him to bother his head 


218 


VOLAA^DE, 


nboot n school ? He’s done enough for the folk about here ; 
he’ll have to do something for himself now — ah, Miss Win 
terbourne, that will be a j^rood day for me, when I hand him 
over the papers.” 

She spoke as if it were a conspiracy between these two. 

“ But it will be a sair, sair job to get him to take the 
place,” she continued, reflectively, “ for the man ha? 
little common-sense ; but he has pride enough to move 
mountains.” 

“Not common-sense ?” said Yolande, with her eyes 
showing her wonder. “ What has he then? I think it is al- 
ways common-sense with him. When you are talking with 
him, and not very sure what to do, whatever he says is al- 
ways clear, straight, and right ; you have no difficulty ; he 
sees just the right way before you. But how am I to help 
you Mrs. Bell ? ” 

“ Well, I dinna ken, exactly, but the idea of an auld 
woman like me going away to Edinburgh among .a’ they 
lawyers is just dredfu’. It’s like Daniel being put into the 
den of lions.” 

“ Well, you know, Mrs. Bell,” Yolande said, cheerfully, 
“ no harm was done to him. The lions did not touch a 
hair of his head.” 

“ Ay I ken that,” said Mrs. Bell grimly ; “ but they dinna 
work miracles nowadays.” 

“ Surely you must have your own lawyers?” the girl 
asked.' 

“ I have that.” 

“You can trust them, then ; with them you are safe 
enough, surely?” 

“ Well, this is the way on’t,” said Mrs. Bell, with decis- 
ion. “ It is not in the nature o’ things for a human being to 
trust a lawyer — it’s no possible. But the needcessity o ’ the 
case drives ye into their hands, and ye can only trust in Prov 
idence that they will make the other side suffer, and no you 
They’re bound to make their money out o’ somebody. I’m 
no saying, ye ken, but that the lawyers that have been 
doing business for ye for a nummer o’ years might no be a 
bit fairer ; for it’s their interest to carry ye on, and be freens 
wi’ ye, but, dear me, when I think of going away to Edinburgh 
a’ by mysel’, among that pack o’ wolves, it’s enough to keep 
one frae sleeping at nights.” 

“ But every one says you are so shrewd, Mrs. Bell ! ” 

“ Do they ? ” she responded, with a ])leascd laugh. ’’Just 


YOLANDE. 


21iJ 

because I kenned what they men Avere after? It needed no 
much judgment to make that out. Maybe if I liad been a 
young lass they might ha* persuaded me ; but when I was a 
young lass with scarcely a bawbee in ray stocking, there AvqitS 
never a word on’t ; and when they did begin to come about 
when I was an auld woman, I kenned fine it was my bank-book 
they were after. It didna take much judgment to make 
that out — the idiwuts ! Ay, and my lord, too — set him 
up wi’ his eight months in London by himsel,’ and me find- 
ing tlie money to put saut in his kail. Well, here am I 
bletherin’ about a lot o’ havers like that, as if I was a young 
lass out at the herdin,’ when I wanted to tell ye, my dear 
young leddy, just how everytliing was. Ye see what 
I was left was, first of a,’ the whole of the place in 
Leicestershire, and a beautifu’ country side it is ; and a braw 
big house too, though it Avas not likely I was going to live 
there, in a state not becoming to one like me, and me 
wanting to be among my own people besides. Then there 
Avas some money in consols, wliich is as safe as the Bank, as 
the saying is; and some shares in a mine in Cornwall. Tlie 
shares I Avas advised to sell, and I did that ; for I am not 
one that cares for risk ; but when I began to get possession 
of my yearly money, and when I found Avhat I could save 
wars mounting up, and mounting up, in jist an extraordinary 
Avay, 1 put some o’ that into French stock, as I thouglit I 
might take a bit liberty Avi’ what Avas my own making in a 
measure. And now, though it’s no for me to boast, it’s a 
braw sum — a braw sura ; andatweel I’m thinking that a fine 
rich English estate, even by itsel’ should be able to buy up a 
wheen bare hillsides in Inverness-shire, even if we have to 
take the sheep ower at a valuation — ay, and leave a pretty 
penny besides. I declare when I think o’ what might ha’ 
happened, I feel I should go doAvn on my knees and thank 
the Almighty for putting enough sense in my head to see 
what they men Avere after? or by this time there might not 
be stick or stone to show for it — a’ squandered away in horse- 
racing or the like — and ]\Ir. Melville, the son of my auld 
master, the best master that ever lived, going about from 
one great man’s house to another, teaching the young gen- 
tlemen, and him as fit as any o’ them to have house and ha’ 
of his ain — ” 

She stopped suddenly, for both of them now saw through 
the parlor Avindow Jack Melville himself come out of hia 
laboratory, carelessly Avhistling. Doubtless he did not know 


220 


YOLANDE. 


tliat Yolniido was in the house, else he would have walked 
tl}ither ; and probably he had only come out to get a breath 
of fresh air, for he went to a rocking-chair close by the 
garden, and threw himself into it, lying back with his 
hands behind his head. Indeed, he looked tlie very incar- 
nation of indolence, this big-boned, massive-shouldered 
young man, who lay there idly scanning the skies. 

“ I am going out to scold him for laziness,” said Yolande. 

“ Please no, my dear young leddy,” Mrs. Bell said, 
laying her hand gently on the girbs arm. “ It is now he is 
working.” 

I “Working! Does it look like it ? Besides, I am not 
so afraid of him as you are, Mrs. Ball. Oh yes, let me go.” 

So she went out and through the little lobby into the 
garden, coming upon him indeed, quite unawares. 

“ Mrs. Bell says I must not speak to you,” she said. 
“ She says you are working, and must not be disturbed. Is 
it so ? And what is the work ? Is it travelling at 68,000 
miles an hour?” 

“ Something like that,” said he ; and he forgot to rise, 
while she remained standing. Then he glanced round the 
threatening sky again. “ You were brave to venture out on 
a morning like this.” 

“ Why ? What is there ?’, 

“ Looks like the beginning of a storm,” said he. “ Here 
we are fairly sheltered, but there are some squalls of wind 
going across, I hope you won’t all be blown down the strath 
into the loch to-night.” 

“ Ah, but I do not believe any longer in weather proph- 
ecies,” she said, tauntingly. “ No, I do not think any one 
has any knowledge of it — at Allt-nam-Ba, at all events. It is 
never five minutes the same. One moment you are in the 
clouds, the next in sunlight. Duncan looks up the hill in 
the morning, and is very serious ; before they have got to 
the little bridge there is blue sky. It is all chance. Do you 
think science can tell you anything ? You, now, when you 
bought that instrument ” — and here she regarded a solar 
machine, the mirrors and brass mountings of which were 
shining clear even on this dull day — “ did you expect to get 
enough sunlight at Gress for you to distil water ? ” 

A twinkle in the clear gray eyes showed that she had 
caught him. 

“ There are mysteries in science that can not be ex- 
plained to babies ” said he (and she thought it rather cool 


VOLANDE. 


221 


that he remained sitting, or rather lounging, instead of 
going and fetching a chair for her). “Everything isn’t as 
easy as snipping out the name of a genus and pasting it at 
the foot of a double sheet of white paper.” 

“ That is good of you to remind me,” she said, without in 
the least being crushed. “ One thing I came for to-day was 
the Tvfpncea borealis"'’ 

Then he instantly jumped to his feet. 

“ Certainly,” said he ; “ come along into the house. You 
may as well take back the boards, and drying-paper, and so 
forth, with you ; and I will show you how to use them now 
There may be a few other things you should have out of 
my herbarium, just to start you, as it were — not rare plants, 
but plants you are not likely to get, up at Allt-nam-Ba. Are 
YOU superstitious ? I will give you a four-leaved clover, 
if you like.” 

“ Did you find it ?” 

“ Yes ; in a marshy place in Glencoe.” 

“ But it is the finder to w’hom it brings luck, as I have 
read,” Yolande said. 

“ Oh, is it so ?” he answered, carelessly. “ I am not 
learned in such things. If you like, you can have it ; and 
in the meantime we will start you with your Lincea and 
a few other things. I don’t suppose the hand-press has ar- 
rived yet ; but mind, you must not refuse it.” 

“ Oh no,” said she, gravely repeating the lesson of yes- 
terday. “ When one wishes to be civil and kind to you, you 
have no night to snub him.” 

The repetiton of the phrase seemed to remind him ; he 
suddenly stopped short, regarding her with an odd, half- 
amused look in his eyes. 

“ Can you keep a secret ?” 

“ I hope so.” 

“ Well, now,” he said, rather under his voice, “ I am go* 
ing to tell you a secret, which on no account must you tell 
to Mrs. Bell. I have just heard on very good authority that 
Monaglen is about to come into the market, after all. ” 

‘ Oh, indeed !” said, she, with perfectly innocent eyes. 
“ Can it be possible ?” 

“ Don’t mention the thing to Mrs. Bell, for you kno-w 
her wild schemes and visions, and it would only make her 
unhappy.” 

“Why, then ? ” 

“ Because what she means to do (if she really means to do 


222 


y^OLANDE. 


it) is not practicable,” he said, plainly. “ Of course, if shp 
buys Monaglen for herself, good and well. She is welcome 
to sit in the hall of my fatliers. I daresay she will do more 
good in the neighborhood than they ever thought of doing, 
for she is an excellent kind of creature. And" it is just 
possible that, seeing me about the place, she may have 
tliought of some romantic project ; but when once I am 
clear away from Gress, it will quite naturally and easily fade 
from her mind.” 

“ But you are not going away ! ” she said ; and that 
sudden sinking of the heart ought to have warned her ; but 
indeed she had not had a wide experience in such matters. 

“ Oh yes,” said he, good-naturedly. “ How could this 
makeshift last ? Of course I must be off — but not this 
minute, or to-morrow. I have started a lot of tilings in this 
neighborhood — with Mrs. Bell’s money, mind — and I want 
to see them going smoothly ; then I ’m off.” 

She did not speak. Her eyes were distant ; she was 
scarcely conscious that her heart was so disappointed and 
heavy. But she was vaguely aware that the life she had 
been looking forward to in these far solitudes did not seem 
half so full and rich now. There was some loneliness about 
it — a vacancy that the mind discerned, but did not know 
how to fill up. Was it the gloom of the day ? She thought 
of Allt-nam-Ba in the wdnter ; it had no longer any charm 
for her. There was no mischief in her brain now, no pre- 
tended innocence in her eyes. Something had befallen — 
she scarcely knew what. And when she followed him into 
the house, to get the Linnma borealis, that little pathetic 
droop of the mouth was marked. 

That same afternoon as she was driving home, and just 
above the little hill that goes dowm to the bridge adjacent 
to Lynn Tow'ers, she met the Master, who was coming 
along on horseback. The drive had been a sombre one 
someliow, for the skies were gloomy and threatening. But 
when she saw him, she brightened up, and gave him a very 
pleasant greeting. 

“ You are quite a stranger,” said she, as they botb 
stopped. 

“ We have had a good many things to attend to at the 
Towers,” he said — as she thought, rather distantly. 

“I hear them talking of liaving a hare rlrive some day 
soon — away at a great distance, at the highest parts. You 
will come and help them, I suppose ? ” 


YOLANDE. 223 

“ I think I must go in to Inverness, and I may have to 
be there for some days.” 

“ You will come and see us before you go, then?” she 
inquired, but rather puzzled by the strangeness, almost 
stiffness, of his manner. 

‘‘I hope so,” said he. “I am glad to see you looking 
BO well. I liear tliey have been liaving good sport at Allt- 
iiam-Ba. Well, I must not detain you. Good-by.” 

“ Good-by,” and she drove on, wondering. He had not 
even asked how her fatlier was. But ])erhaps these busi- 
ness affairs were weighing on his mind. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

• THE GALE. 

As night fell, the storm that Jack Melville had foreseen 
began to moan along the upper reaches of the hills ; and 
from time to time smart torrents of rain came rattling down, 
until the roar of the confluent streams out there in the dark 
sounded ominously enough. All through the night, too, the 
fury of the gale steadily increased ; the gusts of wind 
Hweeping down the gorge shook the small building (although 
solidly built of stone) to its veiy foundations ; and even the 
fierce howling of the hurricane was as nothing to the thun- 
der of the now swollen waters, that seemed to threaten to 
carry away the whole place before them. Sleep was 
scarcely possible to the inmates of this remote little lodge ; 
they knew not what might not happen up in this weather- 
brewing cauldron of a })lace ; and at last, after an anxious 
night, and toward the blurred gray of the morning, they 
must have thought their worst fears were about to b^e real- 
ized, for suddenly there was a terrific crash, as if part of 
the building had given way. Almost instantly every bed- 
room door was opened : clearly no one had been asleep. 
And then, through a white cloud of dust, they began to 
make out what had happened ; and although that was mere- 
ly the falling in of part of the ceilhig of thh hall, of course 
they did not know how much more was likely to come 
down, and Mr. Winterbourne called to Yolandc, sternly 


224 


YOLANDE. 


forbidding her to stir. John Sliortlands was the first to 
venture out, and throngli the cloud of plaster dust he began 
to make his examinations, fuinislied with a long brooni- 
liandle that he obtained from one of the frightened maids. 

“It is all right,” he said. “ There are one or two other 
pieces that must come down ; then the rest will be safe. 
Yolande, you can go back to bed. What? Well, then, go 
back and shut your door, anyway, until I get Duncan and 
the gillies to shovel this stuff away. Don’t come out 
until I tell you.” 

John Sliortlands then went downstairs, got a cap, and 
opened the hall door. The spectacle outside was certainly 
enough to deter any but the bravest. There was no rain, 
but the raging hurricane seemed to fill the atmosphere with 
a gray mist, wliile from time to time a gust would sweep 
down into the bed of the stream, tear the water there into 
a white smoke, and then whirl that up the opposite hillside 
until it was dissolved in the general vapor. But tliCse 
water-spouts, he quickly perceived, were only formed down 
there in the opener stretches of the strath, where the gusts 
could get freely at the bed of the stream ; up here at Allt- 
nam-Ba there was nothing but the violence of the wind 
that came in successive sliocks against the lodge, shaking it 
as if it were in the grip of a vise. 

Pie ventured out. His first experience was to find his 
deer-stalking cap, which he greatly prized, whirled from off 
his head, and sent flying away in the direction of the Allt- 
cam-Ban. But he was not to be daunted. He went in- 
doors again and got another; and then, going out and put- 
ting Ids bullet head and his splendid bulk against the wind, 
he fairly butted his way across to the bothy. 

He found Duncan trying to put up some boards where 
a Avindow had been blown in ; and an angry man was he 
when he learned from Mr. Shortlands what had happened 
at the lodge. 

“ The Master will give it him ! ” he said, savagely. 

“ AVhom ? ” 

“ The plasterer from Inverness, sir. I was telling him 
it was no use mending and mending, but that it was a Avhole 
new ceiling that was wanted, after such a Avild Avinter as 
the last Avinter. The Master will be very angry. The 
young lady might ha,ve been hurt.” 

“ The young lady might have been hurt!” said John 
Shortlands, ironically. “Yes, I should think so, if she 


YOLANDB 


225 


laippened to have been passing. But in this part of the 
country, Duncan, is it only women who are hurt when tli« 
^jeiling of a house falls on them ? The men don’t mind ?” 

Duncai was quite impervious to irony, however. He 
went away to get Sandy and the rest of them to help him 
in shovelling off the plaster — going out, indeed, into this 
raging tempest in his shirt sleeves and with a bare head, 
just as if nothing at all unusual were happening. 

Of course with the inhabitants of the lodge there was no 
thought of stirring out that day. They built up the fires 
in the little dining and drawing rooms, and took to books, 
or the arrangement of flies, or the W'atching at the window 
how the gale was still playing its cantrips — tearing at the 
scant vegetation of tlie place, and occasionally scoojfing up 
one of those vaporous water-spouts from the bed of the 
stream. Then Yolande managed to do a little bit of house- 
hold adornment — wdth some audible grumbling. 

“Dear me,” she said, standing at the dining-room fire, 
“ did ever any one see two such untidy persons ? There is 
a fine row of ornaments for a mantelshelf ! I w'onder what 
madame would say. Let us see : First, some cartridges ; 
wdiy are they not in the bag? Second, a dog-whistle. Third, 
some casting-lines. Fourth, a fly-book; well, I will make a 
little order by putting the casting-lines in the book — ” 

“ Let them alone, Yolande,” her father said, sharply. 
“ You will only make confusion.” 

She put them in, nevertheless, and continued her enu- 
meration : 

“ Fifth, some rifle cartridges : and if one were to fall in 
the fire, wLat then ? Sixth, the stoppers of a fishing-rod. 
Now, the carelessness of it ! Why does not Duncan take 
your rod to pieces, Mr. Shortlands, and put in the stoppers ? 
I know wLere he keeps it — outside the bothy, just over the 
windows : and think, now, how it must have been shaken 
last night. Think of the varnish ! ” 

“ I believe you’re right, Yolande,” said he ; “ but it 
saves a heap of trouble.” 

“ Seventh, a little silver fish in a box — a deceitful little 
beast all covered with hooks. Eighth, a flask, with whiskey 
or some horrid-smelling stuff in it: ah, madame, what 
would you think? Then a telescope: well, that is some- 
thing better; that is something better. Allans, we will go 
and look at the storm.” 

Looking out of the window was clear] f impracticable. 


226 


YOLANDE. 


for the panes were blurred ; but she went to the hall door, 
opened it, and directed the glass down the valley. She 
was quite alone ; the others were busy with their books. 
Then suddenly she called to them, — 

“ Come ! come ! There is some one that I can see — oh ! 
imagine any one fighting against such a storm ! A stranger? 
Perhaps a friend from England ? Ah, such a day to arrive ! 
Or perhaps a shepherd ? — no, there are no dogs witli 
him — ” 

Well, the appearance of a human being on any day, let 
alone such a day as this, in this upland strath, was an event, 
and instantly they were all at the door. They could not make 
him out, much less could they guess on what errand any 
one, stranger or friend, should be willing to venture himself 
against such a gale. But that figure away down tliere kept 
making headway against the wind. They could see how liis 
form was bent, l)is head projecting forward. He was not 
a shepherd : as Yolande had observed, he had no dogs with 
him. He was not the Master of Lynn; that figure belonged 
to a bigger man than the Master. 

“ I’ll tell you who it is,” said John Shorthands, curtly. 
“It’s Jack Melville. Three to one on it.” 

“Oh, the folly! ” Yolande exclaimed, in quite real dis- 
tress. “ He will be blown over a rock.” 

“ Hot a bit of it,” said John Sliortlands, to comfort her. 
“ The people about here don’t think anything of a squall 
like this. Look at Duncan there, marching down to dig 
some potatoes for the cook. A head keeper in the South 
wouldn’t be as good-natured as that, I warrant you. They 
are much too swell gentlemen there ” 

And it was Jack Melville, after all. He was very much 
blown when he arrived, but he soon recovered breath, and 
proceeded to say that he had been afraid that the gale 
might catch .the boat and do some mischief. 

“ And it has,” said he. “It is blown right over to the 
other side, and apparently jammed between some rocks. 
So I have come along to got Donald and one of the gillies 
to go with me, and we will have it hauled clear up on the 
land.” 

“Indeed, no ! ” Yolande protested, with pleading in her 
face. “ Oh no ! — on such a day why should you go out? 
Come in and stay witli us. What is a boat, then — ” 

“ But,” said he, with a sort of laugh, “I am afraid I am 


yOLANDE. 227 

partly responsible for it. I was the last that used tho 

Doat.” 

“ Never mind it, ’ said she : “ what is it — a boat ! No, 
you must not go tlirougli the storm again.” 

“ Oh, but we are familiar with these things up here,” 
said he, good-naturedly. “ If you really mean to invite 
me in, I will come — after Donald and I have gone down 
to tlie loch.” 

“ Will you? ” she said, with her bright face full of wel- 
come and gladness. 

“ I must come back with my report, you know, “ said he. 
“ For I am afraid she may have got knocked about ; and if 
there is any damage, I must make it good.” 

“ Nonsense ! ” Mr. Winterbourne interrupted. 

“ Oh, but I must. It is Lord Lynn’s boat ; and there 
are people from whom one is not quick to accept an obliga- 
tion. But then there are other people,” said he, turning to 
Yolande, “ from whom you can receive any number of 
favors with great pleasure ; and if you don’t mind my stay- 
ing to lunch with you — if I may invite myself to stay so 
long — ” 

“ Do you think I would have allowed you to go away 
before?” she said, with a touch of pride in her tone: she 
had got to know something of Highland ways and customs. 

So he and Donald and two others went away down the 
glen, and in about a couple of hours came back with the 
report that the boat was now placed in a secure position, 
but that it had had two planks stove in, and would have to 
be sent to Inverness for repair. Jack Melville insisting on 
taking that responsibility on his own shoulders, although, 
as a matter of fact, the Master of Ljnn had assisted him in 
dragging the boat up onthe last occasion on which it had been 
used. As for Yolande, she did not care for any trumpery 
boat ; was it not enough that their friend should have come 
to keep them company on this wild and solitary day ? Then 
there was another thing. She had determined to astonish 
the gentlemen with the novelty of a hot luncheon, and 
hero was another who would see what the little household 
could do ! Indeed, it was a banquet. Her father drew 
pointed attention to the various things (although he was 
himself far enough from being a gourmand). A venison 
pasty John Shortlands declared to have been the finest dish 
he had encountered for many a day. He wished to heavens 
they could make a salad like that at the Abercorn Club. 


228 


YOLANDE. 


“Is it not nice to see them so grateful? ” said she, turn 
ing with one of her brightest smiles to the stranger guest, 
“ The poor things ! No wonder they are pleased. The 
other day I climbed away up the hill to surprise them at 
their lunch — oh, you can not imagine the miserableness ol 
it! Duncan told me where I should find them. The day 
was so dull and cold, the clouds low down, and before I 
was near the top, a rainy drizzle began — ” 

“ They generally say a drizzling rain in English,” her 
father said. 

“ But we are not in England. It is a rainy drizzle in 
the Highlands, is it not, Mr. Melville?” 

“ It does not matter how you take it,” he answ^ered ; 
“ but we get plenty of it.” 

“ Then the cold wet all around, and the heather wet ; 
and I w^ent on and on — not a voice — not a sign of any one. 
Then a dog came running to me — that was Bella — and I 
said to myself, ‘Aha, I have found you now!’ Then we 
went on ; and at last — the spectacle ! — the poor people all 
crouched down in a peat-hag, hiding from the rain ; papa 
seated on a game-bag that he had put on a stone ; Mr. 
Shorthands on another ; their coat collars up, the plates on 
their knees, the knives, forks, cold beef, and bread all wet 
with the rain — oh, such a picture of miserableness has never 
l^een seen ! Do you wonder that they are grateful, then — 
do you wonder that they approve — when they have a fire, 
and a warm room, and dry plates, and dry knives and 
forks ? ” 

Indeed they' had a very pleasant meal, and the coffee 
and cigars after it lasted a long time ; for of what good was 
anything but laziness so long as the wind howled and 
roared without? All the time, however, Jack Melville was 
wondering how he could have a few minutes’ private talk 
with Mr. Shortlands ; and as that seemed to be becoming 
less and less probable — ^for Mr. Winterbourne segmed con- 
tent to have an idle day there in his easy-chair by the fire, 
and Yolande was seated on the hearthrug at his knees, quite 
content to be idle too — he had to adopt a somewhat wdld 
pretext. John Shortlands was describing the newest variety 
of hammerless gun ; then he spoke of the one he himself 
had bought just before coming north. Melville pretended 
a great interest. Was it in the bothy ? Yes. Might they 
not run over for a couple of minutes? Yolande protested • 


YOLANDE. 229 

but John Shortlands assented ; so these two ventured out 
together to fight their way across. 

Instead of going into the central apartment of the bothy, 
however, where the guns stood on a rack, Melville' turned 
into the next apartment, which was untenanted, and which 
happened to be warm enough, for Duncan had just been 
prepaiing porridge for the dogs, and a blazing fire still 
burned under the boiler. 

“ I wanted to say a word to you,” 

“ I guessed as much. Wliat’s your news? ” 

“ W ell, not very good,” said Jack Melville, rather gloom- 
ily, “ and 1 don’t like to be the bearer of bad news. I 
meant to tell you the other evening, and I could not do it 
somehow.” 

“ Oh, out with it, man ! never fear. I like to hear the 
worst, and then hit it on the head with a hammer if I can. 
There would have been none of this trouble if I had had 
my way from the beginning — however that’s neither here 
nor there.” 

“ I am afraid I am the bearer of an ultimatum,” Mel- 
ville said. 

“Well?” 

It was clear that Melville did not like this office at all. 
He kept walking up and down the earthen floor, though 
the space was limited enough, his brows contracted, liis 
eyes bent on the ground. 

“ It is awkward for me,” he said, rather impatiently. 
“ I wish I had had nothing to do with it. But you cannot 
call me an intermeddler, for you yourself put this thing on 
me ; and — and — Well, it is not my business either to jus- 
tify or condemn my friend : I can only tell you that I con- 
sidered it was safest and wisest he should know the true 
state of affairs. If I liave erred in that, well — ” 

“ I don’t think you have,” said Shortlands, slowly. “ I 
left it open to your decision — to your knowledge of this 
young fellow. But I think iny decision would, in any case, 
have been the same.” 

“Very well. I think I put the whole matter fairly to 
him. I told him that he had practically no risk to run of 
any annoyance, and that the cause of all this trouble, jjoor 
wretch, would soon be out of the way ; and then I told him 
wdiat Mr. Winterbourne had gone through for the sake of 
hifi daughter. Well, he did not seem to see it that way. 


230 


YOLANDE, 


He was quite frank. He said it was a mistaken Quixotism 
that had been at the bottom of it all.” 

“ I said so too ; but still ” 

“ It is a matter of opinion ; it is of no immediate conse- 
quence,” Melville said. “ But what he seemed quite re* 
solved on was that he would not consent to become a parly 
to this secrecy. He says everything? must be met and faced. 
Thei-e must be no concealment. In short, Yolande must 
be told the whole story, so that in case of any fui-thor an- 
noyance there should be no dread of her discovering it. but 
only the simple remedy of appealing to a constable.” 

John Shortlands considered for a minute or two. 

“I don’t know that he isn’t quite right,” he said, slowly. 
“ Yes I imagine his position is a fair one. At one time I 
said the same. I can look at it from his point of view. I 
think we must admit, as men of the world, that he is per- 
fectly in the right. But” — and here he spoke a little more 
quickly — “ I can’t help speaking what is on my mind ; and 
I say that if you think of what Winterbourne has done for 
this girl, this ultimatum, if you call it so, from the fellow 
who pretends to be her sweetheart, from the fellow who 
wants her for a wife — well, I call it a — shabby thing ! ” 

Melville’s face flushed. “ I am not his judge,” he 
said coldly. 

“ I beg your pardon,” John Shortlands said ; for his an- 
ger was of short duration. “ I ought to have remembered 
that this young Leslie is your friend, as Winterbourne is 
mine. I beg your pardon ; I can do no more.” 

“ Yes, you can,” said Melville in the same measured 
way. “ I wish you distinctly to understand that I express 
no opinion whatever on Mr. Leslie’s decision ; and I must 
ask you to remember that 1 certainly can not be supposed 
to approve of it simply because I am a messenger.” 

“ Quite so — quite so; I quite understand,” John Short- 
lands said. “ The least said the easiest mended. Let’s see 
what is to be done. I suppose there was no doubt in his 
mind — no hesitation ? ” 

“ None.” 

“ It would be no good trying to talk him over?” 

“I, for one, will not attempt it. No, his message was 
distinct. I think you may take it as final. Perhaps I ought 
to add that he may have been influenced by the fact that 
his people at the Towers seem to have been quarrelling 
witli him about this marriage, and he has not the best o^ 


YOLANDE. 


28 ] 


tempers at times, and I ttiink he feels injured, TToAvever, 
that is not part of iny message. My message was distinct, 
as I say. It Avas, in fact, an ultimatum.” 

“ Poor Winterbourne ! ” John Shorthands said, absently. 
“ I wonder what he will look like when I tell him. All 
his labor and care and anxiety gone for nothing. I su|> 
pose I must tell him ; there must be an explanation ; I dare 
say that young fellow won’t come near the lodge now until 
there is an understanding. Winterbourne will scarcely be- 
lieve me. Poor devil — all his care and anxiety gone for 
notliing ! I don’t mind about her so rnucli. She has pluck ; 
slie’ll face it. But Winterbourne — I Avonder what his face 
Avill look like to-night Avhen I tell him.” 

“Well, I have done my best and my worst, I suppose 
lioAvever it turns out,” said Jack Melville, after a second oi 
tAvo. “ And now I will bid you good-by.” 

‘ But you are going into the house ? ” 

“No,” 

“No?” said the other, in astonishment. “You’ll bid 
them good-by, 1 suppose ? ” 

“ I cannot ! ” said Melville, turning himself away: in a 
manner. “ Why, to look at that girl — and to think of the 
man she is going to marry having no more regard for her 
than to — ” But he suddenly recalled himself : this Avas 
certainly not maintaining his attitude of impartiality. 
“Yes,” said he, “ I suppose I must go in to bid them good- 
by.” 

They Avere loath to let him depart, Mr. Winterbourne, 
itideed, wishing him to remain for dinner and stay the 
night. But they could not prevail on liiin ; and soon he 
Avas making his way with his long strides doAvn the glen, 
the gale now assisting instead of impeding his progress, 
John Shortlands (who was apt to form sudden and rather 
violent prepossessions and prejudices) was looking after him, 
ns the tail figure grew moi-e and more distant. 

“ There goes a man,” he Avas saying to himself j “ and I 
wish to heavens he would kick that hound I ” 


YOLANDE, 




HAPTER XXIX. 

SURmSES. 

The gale was followed by heavy rain ; there was no go- 
ing out the next day. But indeed it was not of shooting 
that those two men were thinking. 

“ He might have spared her! he might have spared her ! ” 
was Mr. Winterbourne’s piteous cry, as he sat in his friend’s 
room and gazed out through the streaming window-j^anes 
on the dismal landscape beyond. 

And who was to tell her ? Who was to bring grief and 
humiliation on that fair young life? Who was to rob her 
of that beautiful dream and vision that her mother had al- 
ways been to her ? Xot he, for one. He could not do it. 

And then (for he was a nervous, apprehensive man, al- 
ways ready to conjure up distressing possibilities) might 
she not misunderstand all this that had been done to keep 
her in ignorance? Might she not be angry at having all her 
life been surrounded by an atmosphere of concealment ? If 
she were to mistake the reason of her father’s having 
stooped to subterfuge and deceit? Was Yolande going to 
despise him, then — she, the only being in the world whose 
opinion he cared for ? And always his speculations and fears 
and anxious conjectures came back to this one point, — 

“He might have spared her! he might have spared 
her I ” 

“Now look here, Winterbourne,” John Shortlands said, 
in his plain-spoken way. “ If I were you before I would 
say a word of this story to Yolande I would make sure that 
that would be sufficient for him. I don’t know. I am not 
sure. He says that Yolande must be told ; but will that 
suffice ? Is that all he wants ? If I were in your place I 
would have a clear understanding. Do you know, I can’i- 
lielp thinking there is something behind all this that hasn’t 
come out. If this young fellow is really in earnest about 
Yolande — if he is really fond of her — I don’t think he 
would put this stumbling-block in the way, I don’t think 
he would exact this sacrifice from you, unless there were 
some other reason. Yesterday afternoon Melville said as 


YOLANDE. 


233 


little as he could. He didn’t like the job. But he hinted 
something about a disagreement between young Leslie and 
his family over this marriage.” 

“ I guessed as much,” said Mr. Winterbourne. “Yes, 
I have suspected it for some time. Otherwise I suppose 
his father and aunt would have called on Yolande. They 
know each other. Yolande stayed a night at the Towers 
when Mrs. Graham first brought her here — until the lodge 
was got ready.” 

“ Of course if the fellow has any pluck, he won’t let 
that stand in his way. In the meantime, a domestic row 
isn’t pleasant, and I dare say he is impatient and angry. 
Why should he revenge himself on Yolande, one might ask ? 
,But that is not the fair way of putting it. I can see one 
explanation. I didn’t see it yesterday; and the fact is, I 
got pretty wild when I learned how matters stood, and my 
own impressicm was that kicking was a sight too good for 
him. I have been thinking over it since, though : the rain 
last night kept me awake. And now I can understand his 
saying, ‘ Well, I mean to marry in spite of them ; but I will 
take care, before I marry, to guard against any risk of 
their being able to taunt me afterward.’ And then, no 
doubt, he may have had some sort of notion that, when 
there was no more concealment, when every one knew how 
matters stood, some steps might be taken to prevent the 
recurrence of — of — you know. Well, there is something in 
that. I don’t see that the young fellow is so unreasonable.” 

Mr. Winterbourne was scarcely listening, his eyes looked 
haggard and wretched. 

“ When I took this shooting,” he said, absently, “ when 
the place was described to me, on the voyage out, I thought 
to myself that surely there Yolande and I would be safe 
from all anxiety and trouble. And then again, up the Nile, 
day after day I used to think of her being married and 
settled in this remote place, and used to say to myself that 
then at last everything would be right. And here we are 
face to face with more -trouble than ever.” 

“Nonsense, man! nonsense!” John Shortlands said, 
cheerfully. “ You exaggerate things. I thought this moun- 
tain work would have given you a better nerve. Every- 
thing will be right — in time. Do you expect the young 
people never to have any Jrouble at all ? I tell you every- 
thing will be right — in time. You pull up your courage; 
there is nothing so dreadful about it ; and the end is cei-tain 


234 


YOLANDK 


— wedding bells, old slip])ers, s[)eec]ies, and a thiinderinff 
headache tlie next morning after confectioner’s champagne. 

The haggard eyes did not respond. 

“ And who is to tell her? The shock will be terrible— 
it may kill her.” 

“ Nonsense ! nonsense ! Whoever is to tell her, it must 
not be you. You would make such a fuss; you ^vould 
make it far more desperate than it is. Why, you might 
frighten her into declaring that she would not marry — that 
she would not ask her husband to run the risk of some pub- 
lic scandal. That wmuld be a pretty state of affairs — and 
not unlikely on tlie part of a proud, spirited girl like that. 
No, no ; whoever tells her must put the matter in its proper 
light. It is nothing so very desperate. It will turn out all 
right. And you for one should be very glad that the Master, 
as you call him, now knows the whole story ; for after the 
marriage, whatever happens, he cannot come back on you 
and say you had deceived him. 

“ After the marriage ! And what sort of a happy life 
is Yolande likely to lead when his relatives object to hex 
already ? ” 

“ Tliere you are off again ! More difficulties ! Why, 
man, these things must be taken as they come. You don’t 
know that they object, and I don’t believe they can object 
to her, though the old gentleman mayn’t quite like the color 
of your politics. But supposing they do, what’s the odds ? 
They can’t interfere. You will settle enough on Yolande 
to let the young couple live comfortably enough until tlie 
old gentleman and his sister arrive at common sense — or 
the churchyard. I don’t see any difficulty about it. If 
only those people w^ere to marry whose friends and relatives 
on both sides approved, you might just as well cut the 
Marriage Service out of the Prayer-book at once.” 

This w'as all that was said at the time, and it must be 
admitted that it left Mr. Winterbourne pretty much in the 
same mood of anxious perturbation. His careworn face 
instantly attracted Yolande’s notice, and she asked him what 
was the matter. He answered that there was nothing the 
matter, except the dulness of the day perhaps, and for the 
moment she was satisfied. But she was not long satisfied. 
She became aware that there was trouble somewhere ; 
there was a kind of constraint in the social atmosphere of 
the house ; she even found the honest and hearty John 
Shortlands given to moody staring into the fire- So she 


YOLANDE . 235 

went to her own room, and sat down and wrote the follow- 
ing note : — 

“ Allt-nam-Ba. Friday . 

“ My dear Archie, — We are all in a state of dreadful 
depression here, on account of the bad weather, and tlie 
gentlemen shut up with nothing to do. Please, please take 
pity on us, and come along to dinner at seven. Last night, 
in spite of the gale, Duncan playec;! the ‘ Hills of Lynn’ out- 
side after dinner, and it seemed a kind of message that you 
ought to have been here. I believe the gentlemen have 
fixed next Tuesday, if the weather is fine, for the driving 
of the hares on the far-off heights; and I know they expect 
you to go with them ; and we have engaged a whole crowd 
of shepherds and otliei-s to helj) in the beating. There is 
to be a luncheon where the Uska-nan-/Shean, as Duncan 
calls it, but I aril afraid the spelling is not right, conies into 
the Allt Crom, and it will not be difficult for me to reach 
there, so that I can see how you have been getting on. Do 
you know that Monaglen is for sale ? — what a joy it will 
be if Mr. Melville should get it back again after all ! that 
will indeed be ‘Melville’s Welcome Home ! ” 5fou will 
make us ail very happy if you will come along at seven, 
and spend the evening with us. Yours affectionately. 

“ Yolande.” 

She sent this out to be taken to Lynn Towers by one of 
the gillies, who was to wait for an answer ; and in some- 
thing more than an hour the lad on the sturdy little black 
pony brought back tliis note : 

“ Lynt^- Towers, Friday ^ afternoon . 

“Dear Yolande, — I regret very much that I cannot 
dine with you to-night; and as for Tuesday, I am afraid 
that will be*also impossible, as I go to Inverness to-morrow. 
I hope they will have a good day. Yours sincerely, 

“A. Leslie,” 

She regarded this answer at first with astonishment ; 
tlien she felt inclined to laugh. 

“Look at this, then, for a love-letter!” she said to 
herself. 

But by and by she began to attach more importance 
to it. The coldness of it seemed studied ; yet she liad done 
nothing that slie knew of to offend liim. What Avas amiss? 
Could he be dissatisfied with her conduct in any direction? 


236 


VOLANDE. 


She had tried to be most kind to him, as was her duty, and 
until quite recently they had been on most friendly terms. 
What had she done? Then she began to form the suspi- 
cion that her father and John Shortlands were concealing 
something — she knew not what — from her. Had it any- 
thing to do with the Master ? Had it anything to do with 
the singular circumstance that not even the most formal 
visiting relationship had been established between Lynn 
Towers and the lodge ? Why did her father seem disturbed 
when she proposed to send a haunch of venison to the Tow 
ers — the most common act of civility? 

It was strange that, with these disquieting surmises go- 
ing on in her brain, she should think of seeking information 
and counsel, not from her father nor from Mr. Shortlands, 
nor from the Master of Lynn, but from Jack Melville. It 
was quite spontaneously and naturally that she thought she 
would like to put all her difficulties before him ; but on re- 
flection she justified herself to herself. He was most likely 
to know, being on friendly terms with everybody. If there 
was nothing to disquiet her — nothing to reproach herself 
with — he was just the person to laugh the whole thing 
away, and send her home satisfied. She could trust him. 
He did not ti-eat her quite so much as a child as the others 
did. Even when he spoke bluntly to her, in his school- 
masterish way, she had a vague and humorous suspicion 
that he was quite aware that their companionship was much 
more on a common footing tlian all that came to; and that 
she submitted because she thought it pleased him. . Then 
she had got to believe that he would do much for her. If 
she asked him to tell her honestly what he knew, 
he would. The others might try to hide things from her; 
they might wish to be considerate toward her ; they might 
be afraid of wounding her sensitiveness ; whereas she 
knew that if she went to John Melville he would speak 
straight to her, for she had arrived at the still further con- 
clusion that he knew he could trust her, as she trusted him. 
Altogether, it was a dangerous situtation. 

Next morning had an evil and threatening look about it; 
but fortunately there wms a brisk breeze, and towards noon 
that had so effectually swept the clouds over that th.e lon^ 
wide valley was filled with bright warm sunshine. Yolanda 
resolved to drive in to Gress. There was no game to take 
to Foyers; but tliere were two consignments of liousehoid 
materials from Inverness to be fetched from 'VVhitebridge. 


YOLANDE. 


237 


Besides, she wanted to know what Mrs. Bell had done 
about Monaglen and the lawyers. And besides, slie want- 
ed to know where Alchemilla arvensis ended and A. alpina 
began ; for she had got one or two varieties that seemed to 
come in between, and she had all a beginner’s faith in the 
strict lines of species. There was, in short, an abundance 
of reasons. 

On arriving at Gress, however, she found that Mr. 
Melville, having finished his forenoon work in the school^ 
had gone off to his electric storehouse away up in the hills ; 
and so she sent on the dog-cart to Whitebridge, and was 
content to wait awhile with Mrs. Bell. 

“ I’ll just send him a message, and he’ll come down 
presently.” 

“Oh no, please don’t ; it is a long way to send any one,” 
Yolande protested. 

“ It’s no a long way to send a wee bit flash o’ fire, or 
whatever it is that sets a bell ringing up there,” said the 
old dame. “ It’s wonderful, his devices’ Sometimes I think 
it’s mail- than naitural. Over there, in the laboratory, he 
has got a kind of ear-trumpet ; and if you take out the stop- 
per, and listen in quateness, you’ll hear every word that’s 
going on in the school.” 

“ That is what they call a telephone, I suppose ? ” 

“ The very thing ! ” said Mrs. Bell, as she left the room 
to send a message to him. 

When she came back she was jubilant. 

“ My dear young leddy, I am that glad to see ye ! I’ve 
sent the letter.” 

“ What letter ? ” 

“ To the lawyers. Oh, I was a lang, lang time thinking 
o’t, for they lawyers are kittle cattle to deal wi’ ; and I 
kentied fine if I was too eager they Avould jalouse what I 
was after, and then they would be up to their pranks, So 
I just tolled them that I did not want Monaglen for mysel’ 
— which is as true’s the Gospel — but that if they happened 
to hear what was the lowest price that would betaken, they 
might send me word, in case I should come across a custo- 
mer for them. It doesna do to be too eager about a bar- 
gain, especially wi’ they lawyers ; it’s just inviting them to 
commit a highway robbery on ye.” 

“If Mr. Melville,” said Yolande, quickly, “were to 
have Monaglen, he would still remain in this neighborhood^ 
then?” 


238 


YOLANDE, 


“ Nae doot about tluit ! It’ll be a’ a man’s wark to put 
the place to rights again ; for the factor is a })uir body, and 
the young gentleman never came here — he has plenty else- 
where, I have been told.” 

“ Mr. Melville would still be living here ?” said Yolande, 
eagerly. 

“ At Monaglen, ay, and it’s no so far away. But it will 
mak’ a difference to me,” the old darne said, with a sigli. 
“ For I have got used to his ways about tlie hoose, and it 
Avill seem empty like.” 

“ Then you will not go to Monaglen ? ” 

“’Deed, no ; tliat would never do. I wouldna like to go 
as a servant, for I have been living too long in idleness ; 
and I couldna go back in any other kind of a way, fori ken 
my place. Na, na ; I will just bide where I am, and I will 
keep £220 a year or thereabouts for mysel’ ; and wi’ that I 
can mak’ ends meet brawly, in spite o' they spend rif hus- 
sies.” 

These romantic projects seemed to have a gi-eat fascina- 
tion for this good dame (who had seen far less that was at- 
tractive in the pros|)ect of being given away in marriage by 
a famous duke), and she and Yolande kept on talking about 
them with mucli interest, until a step outside on the gravel 
caused the color to rush to the girl’s face. She did not 
know that when she rose on his entrance. She did not know 
that she looked embarrassed, because she did not feel em- 
barrassed. Always she had a sense of safety in his pres- 
ence. She had not to watch lier words, or think of what he 
was thinking of what she was saying. And on this occa- 
sion she did not even make the pretence of having come 
about Alchemilla alpina. She apologized for having brought 
him down from his electric works, asked him if he would 
take a turn in the garden for a minute or two, as slid had 
something to say to him, and then went out, he following. 
She did not notice that when she made this last remark liis 
face looked rather grave. 

“ Mr. Leslie went to Inverness this morning ? ” she said, 
when they were out in the garden. 

“Yes ; he looked in as lie was passing.” 

“Do you know why he went? ” 

“Well,” said he; “I believe they have been having 
some dispute about the marches of the forest ; but I am 
told it is to be all amicably settled. I fancy Archie is going 
to have the matter squaied up in Inverness.” 


YOLANDE. 


239 


She hesitated then. She took up a flo wer regarded it 
for a second, and then looked him fair in the f.ace. 

“Mr. Melville,” said she, “ do you think it strange that 
I ask you this question ? — you are Mr. Leslie’s friend : is he 
offended with me ? ” 

His eyes were looking at hers too — rather watchfully. 
He was on his guard. 

“I have not the slightest reason to suppose that he is,’ 
was the answer, given with some earnestness, for he was 
glad to find the question so simple. 

“None? I have not done anything that he could com- 
plain of — to you or to any one ? ” 

“I assure you I never heard him breathe a word of the 
kind. Besides,” added he, with a very unusual warmth in 
his pale cheeks, “ I wouldn’t listen. No man could be such 
a coward — ” 

“ Oh, please don’t think that I am angry,” she said, with 
earnest entreaty. “ Please don’t think I have to complain. 
Oh no ! But every one knows what mischief is wrought 
sometimes by mistake ; some one being offended and not 
giving a chance of explanation ; and — I was only anxious 
to be assured that I had done nothing to vex him. His 
going away without seeing us seemed so strange — yes ; and 
also his not coming of late to the lodge ; and — and my pajia 
seems to be troubled about something ; so that I became 
anxious ; and I knew you would tell me the truth, if no one 
else would. And it is all right then ? There is no reason 
to be disturbed, to t-e anxious ? ” 

He was disturbed, at all events, and sorely per])lexed. 
He dared not meet her eyes ; they seemed to read him 
through and through when he ventured to look up. 

“ Don’t imagine for a moment that you have anything 
to reproach yourself with — not for a moment,” he said. 

“ Has any one, then ? ” 

“ Why, no. But — but — well, I will be honest with you, 
Yolande : there has been a little trouble — at the Towers. 
The old people are not easy to please ; and — and Archie has 
too much spirit to allow you to be dragged into a contro- 
versy, you see ; and as they don’t get on very w'ell together, 
I suppose he is glad to get off a few days to Inverness.” 

“Ah, I understand,” she said, slowly. “That is some- 
thing to know. But why did he not tell me ? Does he 
think I am afraid of a little trouble like that? Does he 
think I should be frightened ? Oh no. When I make a 


240 


YOLANDE. 


promise, it is not to break it. He should have trusted me 
more than tliat. Ah, I am sorry he has to go away oh 
my account. Why did he not speak ? It is strange.” 

And then she regarded him with tliose clear, beautiful, 
contemplatiye eyes of hers. 

“ Have you told me everything ? ” 

He did not answer. 

“No. There is more. There is more to account for 
my papa’s trouble — for his going away this morning. And 
why do I come to you? — because I know that what you 
know you will tell to me. You have been my friend since 
ever we came to this place.” 

He could not withstand her appeal ; and yet he dared 
not reveal a secret which was not his own. 

“ Yolande,” said he, and he took her hand to emphasize 
his words, “ tliere is more; but it is not I who must tell 
you. What I can tell you, and what I liope you will be- 
lieve, is that you are in no way the cause of anything that 
may have happened. You have nothing to reproach your- 
self with. And any little trouble there may be will be re* 
moved in time, no doubt. When you have done your best^ 
what more can you do ? ‘ The rest is with the gods.’ ” 

It is just possible that she might have begged him to 
make a candid confession of all that he knew — for she had 
a vague fear that she herself was the cause of that anxiety 
which she saw too visibly in her father’s looks — but at this 
moment the dog-cart drove up to the front gate, and she 
liad to go. She bade him, and also Mrs. Bell, good-by al- 
most in silence ; she went away thoughtfully. And as he 
watched her disappear along the high-road — the warm 
westering light touching the red gold of her hair — he was 
thoughtful too ; and his heart yearned toward her with a 
great pity ; and there was not much that this man would 
not have done to save her from the shadow that was about 
to fall on her young life. 


YOLANDE. 




•• 

CHAPTER XXX. 

“ DARE ALL.” 

He could not rest, somehow. He went into the labora- 
tory and looked vacantly around ; the objects there seemed 
to have no interest for him. Then he went back to the 
house — into the room where he had found her standing ; 
and that liad more of a charm for him : the atmosphere 
still seemed to bear the perfume of her presence, the music 
of her voice still seemed to hang in the air. She had left 
on the table — she had forgotten, indeed — a couple of boards 
enclosing two specimens of the Alchemilla. These he 
turned over, regarding with some attention the pretty, 
quaint French handwriting at the foot of the page: 
“ Alchemilla alpina. Alpine Lady' s-mantle, Allt-nam-Ba^ 
September^ 188-.” But still his mind was absent ; he was 
following in imagination the girl herself, going awa}' along 
the road there,- alone, to meet the revelation that was to 
alter her life. 

And was he to stand by idle? Was he going to limit 
himself to the part he had been asked to play — that of 
mere message-bearer? Could he not do something? Was 
he to be dominated by the coward fear of being called an 
intermeddler? He had not pondered over all this matter 
(with a far deeper interest than he himself imagined) with- 
out result. He had his own views, his own remedy ; he 
knew what counsel he would give, if he dared intervene. 
And why should he not dare ? He thought of the expres- 
sion of her face as she had said, with averted eyes, “ Good- 
by!” and then, why, then, a sudden impulse seized him 
that somehow and at once he must get to Allt-nara-Ba, and 
that before she should meet her father. 

He snatched up his hat and went quickly out and 
through the little front garden into the road; there he 
paused. Of course he could not follow her ; she must needs 
see him coming up the wide strath ; and in that case what 
excuse could he give ? But what if the shooting party 
had not yet come down from the hill ? Might he not in- 
tercept them somewhere ? Sometimes, when they had bc'-n 


YOLANDE. 


•212 

taking the far tops in search of a ptarmigan or two, they 
came home late — to be scolded by the young house-mistress 
for keeping dinner back. Well, the result of these rapid 
calculations was that the next minute he had set out to 
climb, with a swiftness that was yet far too slow for the 
eagerness of his wishes, the steep and rough and rugged 
lulls that stretch away up to the neighborhood of Lynn 
forest. 

First it was over peat bog and rock, then through a 
tangled undergrowth of young birches, then up through 
some precipitous gullies, until at last he had gained the 
top, and looked abroad over the forest — that wide,desolate, 
silent wilderness. Not a creature stirred, not even the 
chirp of a chaffinch broke the oppressive stillness ; it 
seemed a Avorld of death. But he had no time to take 
note of such matters ; besides, the solitude of a deer forest 
was familiar to him. lie held along by the hilltop, some- 
times having to descend into sharp little gullies and clamber 
up again, until, far below him, he^ came in sight of Lynn 
Towers and the bridge, and the stream, and the loch ; and 
oinvard still he kept his way, until the strath came in view, 
with Allt-nam-Ba, and a pale blue smoke rising from the 
chimneys into the still evening air. Probably Yolande had 
got home by that time ; perhaps she might be out and walk- 
ing round the place, talking to the dogs in the kennel, and so 
forth. So he kept rather back from the edge of the hill- 
top, so that he should not be descried, and in due time ar- 
rived at a point overlooking the junction of three glens, 
down one of which the shooting people, if they had not 
already reached the lodge, were almost certain to come. 

lie looked and waited however, in vain, and he was com- 
ing to the conclusion that they must have already passed 
and gone on to the lodge, when he fancied he saw some- 
thing move behind some birch bushes on the hillside 
beyond the glen. Presently he made out what it was — a 
pony grazing, and gradually coming more and more into 
view. Then he reflected that the pony could only be there 
for one purpose; that probably the attendant gillie and the 
panniers were hidden from sight behind those birches ; 
and that, if it were so, the shooting party had not returned, 
and were bound to come back that way. A very few 
minutes of further waiting proved his conjecture to bo 
right, a scattered group of people, Avith dogs in to IkjcI, ap- 
pearing on the crest of the hill opposite. Then he had no 


YOLANDE. 


243 


furtlior doubt. Down this slope lie went at headlong speed, 
crossed the rushing burn by springing from boulder to 
boulder, scrambled up through the thick brusiivrood and 
heatlier of the opposite banks, and very soon encountered 
the returning party, who were now watching the panniers 
being put on the pony’s back. 

Now that he laad intercepted Mr Winterbourne, there 
was no need for hurry. He could take time to recover his 
breath, and also to bethink himself as to how he should 
approach this difficult matter ; and then, again, he did not 
wish those people to imagine that he had come on any 
important errand. And so the conversation, as the pony 
was being loaded, was all about the day’s sport. They 
had done very well, it appeared ; the birds had not yet got 
wild, and there was no sign of packing; they 'had got a 
couple of teal and a golden plover, which was something of 
a variety ; also they had had the satisfaction of seeing a 
large eagle — which Duncan declared to be a Golden Eagle — 
at unusually close quarters. 

Then they set out for home ; Duncan and the gillies 
making away for a sort of ford by which they could get 
the pony across the Dun Water, while the three others 
took a nearer way to the lodge by getting down through a 
gully to the Corrie-an-eich, where there was a swing-bridge 
across the burn. When they had got to the bridge, Mel- 
ville stopped him. 

“ I am not going on with you to the lodge,” said he. 
“ Mr Wintebourne, I have seen your daughter this after- 
noon. She is troubled and anxious ; and 1 thought I’d 
come along and have a word with you. I hope you will 
forgive me for thrusting myself in where I may not be wanted 
but — but it is not always the right thing to “pass by on 
the other side.” I couldn’t in this case.” 

“ I am sure we are most thankful to you for what you 
have done already,” Yolande’s father said, promptly; and 
then he added, with a weary look in his face, “and what is 
to be done now I don’t know. I cannot bring myself to do 
this that Leslie demands. It is too terrible. I look at the 
girl — well, it does not bear speaking of.” 

“ Look here,Winterbourne,” John Shortlands said, “ I 
am going to leave you two together. I will wait for you 
on the other side. But I would advise you to listen well 
>x) anything that Mr Melville lias to say ; I have my own 
n:uess.” 


244 


YOLANDE. 


“What I war t to know, first of all,’’ Mr Winterbourne 
said, with a kind of despair in his voice, “ is wliether you 
are certain tliat the Master will insist ? Why should he f 
How could it matter to him ? I thought we had done every- 
tiling when we let him know. Why should Yolande know? 
Why make her miserable to no end ? Look what has been 
done to keep this knowledge from her all through these 
years ; and you can see the result in the gayety of her 
heart. Would she have been like that if she had known — 
if she had always been thinking of one who ought to be near 
her, and perliaps blaming herself for holding aloof from 
her ? She would have been qnite different ; she would have 
been old in sadness by this time ; whereas she has never; 
known what a care was. Mr. Melville, you are his friend 
you know him better than any of us. Don’t you think there 
is some chance of reasoning with him, and inducing him to 
forego this demand ? It seems so hard.” 

The suffering that this man was undergoing was terrible. 
Ilis question formed almost a cry of entreaty, and Jack 
Melville could scarcely bring himself to answer in what he 
well knew to be the truth. 

“ I cannot deceive you,” he said, after a second. 
“ There is no doubt that Leslie’s mind is made up on the 
point. When I undertook to carry his message, he more 
than once repeated his clear decision — ” 

“ But wliy ? What end will it serve ? How could it 
matter to them — living away from London? How could 
they be harmed ? ” 

“Mr. Winterbourne,” said the other, with something of a 
clear emphasis, “when I reported Leslie’s decision to Mr. 
Shortlands, as I was asked to do, I refused to defend it — or to 
attack it, for that matter — and I would rather not do so now. 
What 1 might think right in the same case, what you 
might think right, does not much matter. 1 told Mr. Short- 
lands that perhaps we did not kuow everything that might 
lead to such a decision ; Leslie has not been on good terms 
with his father and aunt, and he tliinks he is being badly 
used. Tliere may be other things ; I do not know.” 

“And how do we know that it will suffice ? ” the' othei 
said. “ How do we know that it will satisfy him and liis 
people ? Are we to inflict all this pain and sorrow on the 
girl, and then wait to see whether that is enough ? ” 

“ It is not what I would do,” said Jack Melville, who 
had not come here for nothing. 


VOLANDE, 


246 


“ What would you do, then ? Can you suggest any. 
thing? ” her father said, eagerly. “Ah, you little know 
how we should value any one who could remove this thing 
from us !” 

“ What I would do? Well, I will tell you. I would go 
to that girl, and I would see how much of the woman is in 
her ; I think you will find enough ; I would say to her, 
“ There is your mother ; that is the condition she has sunk 
into through those accursed drugs. Every means has 
been tried to save her without avail — every means save 
one. It is for you to go to her — you yourself — alone. Who 
knows what resurrection of will and purpose may notarise 
within her when it is her own daughter who stands before 
her and appeals to her — when it is her own daughter who 
will be by her side during the long struggle ? That is 
your duty as a daughter : will you do it?” If I know the 
girl, you will not have to say more.” 

The wretched man opposite seemed almost to recoil 
from him in his dismay. “ Good God !” he muttered, and 
there was a sort of blank, vague terror in his face, Melville 
stood silent and calm, awaiting an answer. 

“ It is the suggestion of a devil,” said this man, who 
was quite aghast, and seemed scarcely to comprehend the 
whole thing just yet, “ or else of an angel ; why — ” 

“ It is the suggestion neither of a devil nor an angel,” 
said Melville, calmly, “ but of a man who has read a few 
medical books.” 

The other, with the half horror-stricken look in his eyes, 
seemed to be thinking hard of ail that might happen ; and 
his two hands clasped together over the muzzle of his gun, 
which was resting on the ground, were trembling. 

“ Oh, it is impossible — impossible !” he cried at length 
“ It is inhuman. You have not thought of it suHiciently. 
My girl to go through that ! — have you considered what 
you are proposing to subject her to?” 

“ I have considered,” Jack Melville said (perhaps with a 
passing qualm ; for there was a pathetic cry in this man’s 
voice). “ And I have thought of it sufficiently, I hope. I 
would not have dared to make tim suggestion without the 
most anxious consideration.” 

“And you would subject Yolande to thatf^^ 

“ Xo,” said the other, “I would not. I would not sub- 
ject her to anything; I would put the case before her, and! 
know what her own answer wouhl be. I don’t think any 


^46 


YOLANDE, 


one would have to use prayers and entreaties. I don’t 
think it would be necessary to try much persuasion. I say 
this — put the case before her, and I will stake my head I 
can tell what her answer will be — what her decision will 
he — yes, and before you have finished your story !” 

“ And to go alone — ” 

“ She will not be afraid.” 

He seemed to have a very profound conviction of his 
knowledge of this girl’s nature ; and there was a kind of 
pride in the way he spoke. 

“But why alone ? ’’pleaded the father — beseemed to 
be imagining all kinds of things with those haggard eyes. 

“ I would not have the mental shock lessened by the 
presence of any one. I would have no possible suspicion 
of a trap, a bait, a temptation. I w'ould have it between 
these two : the daughter’s appeal to her mother. I am not 
afraid of the result.” 

“ She could not. My girl to go aw'ay by herself ! — she 
could not ; it is too terrible.” 

“ Try her.” 

“ She has never travelled alone. Why, even to go to 
London by herself — ” 

“ Oh, but that has nothing to do with it. That is not 
what I mean at all. As for that, her maid would go with 
her as a matter of course ; and Mr. Shortlands might see her 
as far as London if he is going south shortly, as I hear. 
She could put up at one or other of the hotels that she has 
already stayed at with you. Then you would give her the 
address and leave the rest to her.'’' 

“You have been thinking over this, Mr. Winterbourne 
said. “ I have not. I am rather bewildered about it.” 
Shall we ask Shortlands ? ” 

“ If you wdsh. But first let me explain, Mr. Winter- 
bourne. As 1 understand, several arrangements have been 
made with this poor woman — only, unhappily, to be broken 
by her. Well, now, why I want Yolande to go alone — if 
you think the experiment should be tried at all — is to 
prevent suspicion in the poor woman’s mind. I would have 
no third person. It should be a matter between the two 
women themselves : and Yolande must insist on seeing her 
mother alone.” 

“ Insist ! Yes, and insist with two such wretches as 
those Rornfords ! Why, the man 'might insult her; he 
might lay hands on her, and force her out of tlie house.” 


YOLANDE. 


247 


Melvillu’s pale, dark face grew dark at tins, and liiseyes 
had a sudden, sliarp fire in them. 

“ She must have a policeman waiting outside,” he said, 
curtly. “ And her maid must go inside with her, but not 
necessarily into the room.” 

And then, ” said Mr. Winterbourne, who was appar- 
ently picturing all this before liis mind ; “ supposing she 
were to get lier mother away with her, what then ? ” 

“ Slie would take her back to the hotel. She must have 
a private sitting-room, of course. Then, in two or three 
days’ time, when she had got tlu^ necessary travelling tilings 
for her mother, she would take her down to some jquiet sea- 
side place — Eastbourne, or Bournemouth, or some such 
jilace — and get rooms there. The two women would get to 
know each other tliat way ; Yolande would aways be with 
her ; her constant society would be her mother’s safeguard.” 

“ You have thought of everything — you have thought of 
everytliing,” the fatlier murmured. “ Well, let us see what 
Shortlands says. It is a terrible risk. I am not hopeful 
myself. The thing is, is it fair to bring all this distress and 
suffering on the girl on such a remote chance?” 

“ You must judge of that,” said Melville. ‘‘ You asked 
me what I would do. I have told you.” 

Mr. Winterbourne was about to step on to tlie bridge, 
across which only one could go at a time ; but he suddenly 
turned back, and said, with some earnest emphasis, to the 
younger man : 

“ Do not imagine that because I hesitate I think any the 
less of your thoughtfulness. Not many would have done as 
much. Whatever ha])pens, I know what your intentions 
were towards us.” Pie took Melville’s hand for a moment, 
and pressed it. “ And I thank you for her sake and for my 
own. May God bless you ! ” 

When they got to the other side they found John Short- 
lands seated on a boulder of granite, smoking a cigar. He 
was not much startled by tins proposal, for Melville had 
mentioned something of the kind to him, in an interjectional 
sort of fashion, some time before, and he had given it a brief 
but rather unfavorable consideration. Now, as they talked 
the matter over, it appeared tliat he stood about midway be- 
tween these two, having neither the eager enthusiasm of Jack 
Melville nor yet the utter hopelessness of his friend Winter- 
bourne. 

“ If you think it is worth trying, try it,” said he, coolly. 


248 


YOLANDE. 


“ It can’t do much harm. If Yolande is to know, she may 
as well know to some end. Other things have been tried, 
and failed ; this might not. The shock might bring her to 
her senses. Anyhow, don’t you see, if you once tell Yo- 
lande all about it, I rather fancy she will be dissatisfied 
until she has made a trial.” 

“ That is what I am certain of, ” Melville said, quickly. 
“ I would contentedly leave it to herself. Only the girl must 
have some guidance. ” 

“ Surely, surely,” said John Shortlands. “ I consider 
your plan very carefully laid out — if Winterbourne will risk 
it. Thei:)nly other way is to leave Yolande in her present 
happy ignorance, and tell the Master of Lynn, and his 
father, and his aunt, and whatever otlier relations he has, 
to go to the devil.” 

“ Shortlands,” said Mr. Winterbourne, angrily, “ this is 
a serious thing; it is not to be settled in your free and easy 
way. I suppose you wouldn’t mind bringing on Yolande 
the mortification of being jilted ? How could you explain 
to her ? She would be left — without a word. And I fear 
she is beginning to be anxious already. Poor child, which- 
ever way it goes, she will have enough to suffer.” 

“ .1 should not mind so much which way it goes, ” said 
John Shortlands, bluntly, “ if only somebody would take 
the Master of Lynn by the scruff of the neck, and oblige 
me by kicking him from Allt-nam-Ba bridge to Foyers pier.” 

“ Come, come,” said Melville (though he was by much 
the youngest of these three), “ the less said in that way 
the better. Wliat you want is to m'ake the best of things, 
not to stir up ill-will. For my part I regard Miss Winter- 
bourne’s engagement to Mr. Leslie as a secondary matter 
• — at this present moment I consider her first duty is to 
her mother ; and I am pretty sure you will find that will be 
her opinion when you put the facts of the case before her. 
Yes ; I am pretty certain of that.” 

“And who would undertake to tell her?” her father 
said, “ who could face the suffering, the shame, you would 
see in her eyes? Who would dare to suggest to her that she, 
so tenderly cared for all her life, should go away and en- 
counter these horrors ? ” 

There w’as silence. 

“ If it comes to that, “ said Melville, slowly, “ I will do 
it. If you think it right — if it will give you pain to speak to 
her — let me speak to her.” 


YOLANDE. 


249 


“ You ? ” said her father. “ Why should you undertake 
what cannot but be a dreadful task? Why should you have 
to bear that? ” 

Oh,” said he, “ my share in the common trouble 
would be slight. Besides, I have not many friends ; and 
when one has the chance of lending a hand, don’t you un- 
derstand, it is a kind of gratification. I know it will not 
be pleasant, except for one thing-I am looking forward to 
her answer; and I know what it will be. ” 

“ But, really,” her father said, with some hesitation, “ is 
it fair we should put this on you ? It is a great sacrifice to 
ask from one who has been so recently our friend. You 
have seen her-you have seen how light-hearted she is; and 
to ask any one to go and take away the happy carelessness 
of her life from her — ” 

“ Yes, it will make a change,” said Melville, thought- 
fully. “ I know that. She will be no longer a girl. She 
will be a woman. ” 

“ At all events. Winterbourne, ” John Shortlauda 
broke in, “ what I said before, I say now — you are the last 
man to undertake such a job. You’d frighten the girl out 
of her senses. It’s bad enough as it is; and it’ll have to be 
told her by degrees. I would have a try myself, but I might 
say something about the cause of her having to be told, 
and that would only make mischief. If I said anything 
about your friend Leslie, Mr. Melville, I ask you to forget 
it. No use making rows. And I say, if Winterbourne de- 
cides on taking your way out of this troublous business, 
and if you don’t mind doing what you offered to do, you 
could not find a better time than next Tuesday, if that v.dll 
be convenient for you, for we shall be all away at the far 
tops that day, and I daresay, it will take you sometime to 
break the news gently.” 

“ I am quite at your service, either on Tuesday or any 
other day, whenever you let me know what you have de- 
cided.” 

He would not go on to the house with them, despite all 
their solicitations ; on the other hand, he begged them not 
to say to Yolande that they had seen him. So they went 
on their way down to the little lodge and its dependencies, 
while he went back and over the hills. 

“ He’s a fine fellow that, and no mistake, ” said the 

plain spoken John Shortlands. “ There is a sort of broad 


250 


YOLANDE. 


human nature about him. And I should think, Winter* 
bourne, you were very much obliged to him.” 

“ Obliged ? ” said Yolande’s father. “ It is scarcely the 
word. ” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

CONTRITION. 

Mrs. Graham, attended by her maid, and dressed in one 
of the most striking of her costumes, was slowly pacing up 
and down the loud-echoing railway station at Inverness. 
This was what her brother used spitefully to call her plat- 
form parade ; but on this occasion, at all events, she had no 
concern about what effect, if any, her undoubtedly distin- 
guished appearance might produce. She was obviously 
deeply preoccupied. Several times she stopped at the book- 
stall, and absently glanced at the titles of the various jour- 
nals ; and, indeed, when at length she purchased one or two 
papers, she forgot to take up the change, and had to be 
called back by the pretty young lady behind the counter. 
Then she glanced at the clock, handed the newspapers to 
her maid and bade her w^ait there for a few minutes, and 
forwith entered the Station Hotel. 

She passed along the corridor, and went into the draw- 
ing-room. From that room she had a full view of the 
general reading-room, which forms the centre of the build- 
ing, and is lit from the roof ; and the first glance showed 
her the person of whom she was in search. The Master of 
Lynn, the sole occupant of the place, was lying back in a 
cane-bottomed rocking-chair, turning over the jiages of 
Punch. 

“ So I have found you at last. What are you doing 
here ? ” she said, rather sharply. 

He looked up. “ I might ask the same question of 
you,” he answered, with much coolness. 

“ You know well enough. It is not for nothing I have 
come all the way from Investroy.” 

“You must have got up early,” he remarked. 

“1 want to krow what you are doing here,” . .. 


YOLANDE. 


2ol 


“ I am reading Punchy 

“ Yes,” said she, with some bitterness, “ and I suppose 
yonr cliief occupation is playing billiards all day long with 
cominerical travellers.” 

‘‘ One might be worse employed.” 

“ Archie, let us have none of this nonsense. What do 
you mean to do ? Why don’t you answer my letters ? ” 

“ Because you make too much of a fuss. Because you 
are too portentous. Now I like a quiet life. That is why 
I am here ; I came here to have a little peace.” 

“ Well, I don’t understand you at all,” his sister said, in 
a hopeless kind of way. “ I could understand it better if 
you were one of those young men wlio are attracted by 
every pretty face they see, and are always in a simmering 
condition of love-making. But you are not like that. 
And I thought you were proud to think of Yolande as your 
future wife. I can remember one day on board the daha- 
beeyah. You were anxious enough then. What has 
changed you ? ” 

“ I do not know that lam changed,” said he, either with 
indifference or an affectation of indifference. 

“ Is Shena Van in Inverness ? ” said Mrs. Graham, 
sharply. 

“ I suppose Miss Stewart has as good a right to bo in 
Inverness as anybody else,” he said, formally. 

“ Do you mean to say you don’t know whether she is in 
Inverness or not ? ” 

“ I did not say nothing of the kind.” 

“ Have you spoken to her ? ” 

“ Don’t keep on bothering,” he said, impatiently. 

Miss Stewart is in Inverness ; and if you want to know, 
I have not spoken a single word to her, Is that enough ? ” 

“ Why are you here, then ? What are you going to 
do ? ” " 

“ Nothing.” 

“ Really this is too bad, Archie,” his sister said, in deep 
vexation. “ You are throwing aw'ay the best prospects a 
ycmng man ever had, and all for what ? For temper ! ” 

“I don’t call it temper at all,” said he; “I call it self- 
respect. I have told you already that I would not degrade 
Yolande Winterbourne so far as to plead for her being re- 
ceived by my family. A pretty idea ! ” 

“ There w’ould have been no necessity to plead if only 
you had exercised a little patience and tact and judgment. 


252 


YOLANDE. 


And surely it is not too late yet. Just think how much 
pleasanter it would be for you and for all of us in the future 
if you were rather more on an equal footing with Jim — I 
jnean as regards money. I don’t see why you shouldn’t 
have your clothes made at Poole’s, as Jim has. Why 
shouldn’t you have chamois-leather pockets in your over- 
coat as well as he ? ” 

“ I can do without chamois-leather pockets,” he ans- 
wered. 

“Very well,” said she, suddenly changing the mode of 
her attack ; “but what you cannot do without is the repu- 
tation of having acted as a gentleman. You are bound in 
honor to keep faith with Yolande Winterbourne.” 

“ I am bound in honor not to allow her to subject her- 
self to insult,” he retorted. 

“ Oh, there will be nothing of the kind ! ” his sister ex- 
claimed. “How can you be so unreasonable?” 

“ You don’t know the worst of it,” said he, gloomily. 
“ I only got to know the other day. Yolande’s mother is 
alive — an opium drinker. Off her head at times ; kicks up 
rows in the streets; and they are helpless, because they 
have all been in this conspiracy to keep it back from Yo- 
lande — ” 

“You don’t mean that, Archie ! ” his sister exclaimed, 
looking very grave. 

“ 1 do, though. And, you know, his lordship might in 
-time be got to overlook the Radical papa, but a mamma 
who might at any moment hgure in a jmlice court — I think 
not even you could get him to stand that.” 

“ But, Archie, this is dreadful ! ” Mrs. Graham exclaimed 
again. 

“1 daresay it is. It is the fact, however.” 

“ And that is why he was so anxious to get Yolande away 
from London,” she said, thoughtfully. “Poor man, what a 
terrible life to lead ! ” 

She was silent for some time; she was reading the story 
more clearly now — his continual travelling with Yolande, 
Ills liking for long voyages, his wish that the girl should live 
in the Highlands after her marriage. And perhaps, also, 
his warm and obvious opproval of that marriages — she knew 
that fathers with only daughters were not always so com- 
plaisan t. 

Two or three strangers came into the reading-room. 


YOLANDE. 253 

“ Archie,” said she, waking up from a reverie, “ let us 
go out for a stroll. I must think over tins.” 

He went and fetched his hat and stick ; and the maid 
having been directed to go into the hotel and wait her mis- 
tress’s return, the brother and sister went outside and pro- 
ceeded to walk leisurely through the bright and cheerful 
little town in the direction of the harbor. 

“ What is your own view of the matter? ” she said at 
length, and somewhat cautiously. 

“ Oh, my position is perfectly clear. I can have noth- 
ing to do with any such system of secrecy and terrorism. 
I told Jack Melville that when he came as a sort of ambas- 
sador. I said I would on no account whatever subject my- 
self to such unnecessary risks and anxieties. My conten- 
tion was that, first of all, the whole truth should be told to 
Yoland ; then if that woman keeps quiet, good and well ; if 
not, we can appeal to the law and have her forcibly con- 
fined. There is nothing more simple ; and I daresay it 
could be kept out of the papers. Hut then, you see, my 
dear JNIrs. Polly, there is also the possibility that it might 
get into the papers ; and if you add on this little possibility 
to what his lordship already thinks about the whole affair, 
you may guess what use ail your beautiful persuasion and 
tact and conciliation Avould be.” 

“ I don’t see,” said Mrs. Graham, slowly, “ why papa 
should know anything about it. It does not concern him. 
Many families have ne’er-do-well or disreputable members, 
and simply nothing is said about them, and they are sup- 
posed not to exist. Friends of the family ignore chein ; 
they are simply^ not mentioned, until in time they are for- 
gotten altogether ; it is as if they did not exist. I don’t 
see \vhy papa should be told anything about it.” 

“ Oh, I am for having everything straightforward,” said 
he. “ I don’t wish to have anything thrown in my teeth 
afterward. But the point isn’t worth discussing in the 
present state of his lordship’s temper, and it isn’t likely to 
1)0 so long as that old cat is at his elbow. Well, now, that 
is wliat Mr. Winterbourne might fairly say. He might say 
we had no right to object to his having a half-maniac wife 
in his family so long as we had an entirely maniac aunt — ■ 
wlio is also a cantankerous old beast — in ours.” 

“ Archie, I must ask you to be more decent in your Ian- 
’uage!” his sister said, angrily. “Is that the way th« 
young men talk at Balliol now ? 


254 


YOLANDE, 


“ I guess it’s the way thay talk everywhere when they 
happen to have the luxury of having an Aunt Colquhoun 
'as a relative,” 

“ My dear Master, you won’t go very far to put matters 
straight if you continue in that mood.” 

“ Am I anxious to go far to put matters straight ? ” 

“ You ought to be — for the sake of Miss Winterbourne,’* 
said his sister, stiffly. 

“No,” he answered; “it is they who ought to be — for 
the sake of Lynn.” 

Well, she saw there was not much to be done with him 
just then; and, indeed, there was something in what he 
had told her that wanted thinking over. But in the mean 
time she was greatly relieved to find that he had not ( as 
she had suspected) resumed any kind of relations with Shena 
Van, and she was anxious above all things to get him away 
from Inverness. 

“ When are you going back to Lynn ? ” she asked. 

“ I don’t know,” he answered, carelessly. 

“ Now do be sensible, Archie, and go down with me in 
this aftei-noon’s steamer. All this trouble will be removed 
in good time, and you need not make the operation unneces- 
sarily difficult. I am going down to Fort Augustus by the 
three-o’clock boat ; you can come with me as far as Foyers.” 

“Oh, I don’t mind,” he said. “ 1 have had a little peace 
and quiet ; I can afford to go back to the menagerie. Only 
there won’t be anybody to meet me at Foyers.” 

“You can get a dog-cart from Mrs. Elder,” his sister 
said. “ And if you were very nice you would take me back 
to your hotel now and give me some lunch, ’for 1 am fright- 
fully hungry. Do you know at what hour I had to get up 
in order to catch the boat at Fort Augustus ? ” 

“I don’t see why you did it.” 

“ No, perhaps not. But when you are as old as I am 
you will see with different eyes. You will see what chances 
you had at this moment, that you seem willing to let slip 
through your fingers. And why? — Because you have not 
enough patience, to withstand a little opposition. But you 
knew perfectly well when you asked Yoland Winterbourne 
to marry you, on board the dahabeeyah, that papa might 
very probably have objections, and you took the risk ; an^’ 
now when you find there are objections and o])positio^ i 
don’t think it is quite fair for you to throw the whole thing 
up, and leave the girl deserted and every one disappointed 


VOLANDE. 


255 


And it all depends on yourself. You have only to be 
patient and conciliatory ; when they see that you arc not 
to bo affected by their opposition they will give iii, in time. 
And as soon as the people go away from Inverstroy I will 
come over and help yo u.'’ 

He said nothing. So they went back and had lunch at 
the hotel; and in due time, Mrs. Graham’s maid acompany- 
ing\ they drove along to. the canal, and got on board the 
little steamer. They had a beautifid sail down Loch Ness 
on this still, golden afternoon. But perhaps the pictu- 
resqueness of tlie scenery was a trifle familiar to them ; in 
fact, they regarded the noble loch mostly as an excellent higli- 
way for the easy transf(n*ence of casks and hampers from 
Inverness, and their cliief impression of the famous falls of 
Foyers was as to the height of the hill that their horses had 
to climb in going and coming between Foyers and Lynn. 

As they were slowly steaming in to Foyer’s pier pretty 
Mrs. Graham said, 

“ I wonder if that can be Yolande herself in that dog- 
cart? Yes, it is; that is her white Rubens hat. Lucky 
for you. Master ; if she gives you a lift, it will save you 
hiring.” 

“ I don’t tliink,” said he, with a faint touch of scorn, 
“that the mutual excess of courtesy which has been inter- 
changed between Lynn Towers and Allt-nam-Ba would 
warrant me in accepting such a favor. But the cat bows 
when she and Yolande pass. Oh yes, she does as much as 
that.” 

“ And she will do a little more in time, if only you are 
reasonable,” said liis sister, who still hoped that all would 
be well. 

Young Leslie had merely a hand-bag with him. When he 
left the steamer he walked along the pier by himself until 
he reached the mad, and there he found Yolande seated in 
the dog-cart. He went up and shook hands with her and 
she seemed very pleased to see him. 

“You are going to Lynn ? Shall I drive you out?” 

“ No, thank you,” said he, somewhat stifil). “I will 
not trouble you. I can get a trap at the hotel.” 

She looked surprised, and then, perhaps, a trifle reserved. 

“ Oh, very well,” said she, with calm politeness. “ The 
hotel carriao^es have more room than this little one. Good- 
by.” 

Then it suddenly occurred to him that he had no quarrel 


256 


VOLA.VDE. 


with her. She might be the indirect car.se of all this trouble 
and confusion that had befallen him, but she was certainly 
not the direct cause. Slie was in absolute ignorance of it, 
in fact. And so he lingered for a second, and then he said, 
looking n|>. 

You have no one coining by the steamer? ” 

“ Oh no,” she said ; but she did not renew the invitation J 
indeed, there was just a touch of coldness in her manner. 

“If Ithouglit 1 should not overload the dog-cart,” said 
he, rather shamefacedly, “ I would beg of you to give me a 
seat. I understand the stag’s head has come down by this 
steamer. I saw it at Macleay’s this morning.” 

“It is that I have come in for — that only,” she said. 
“ There is plenty of room, if you wish.” 

So without more ado he ])ut his hand-bag into the dog- 
cart, behind, and there also was desposited the stag’s head 
that Sandy was now bringing along from the steamer. 
Then, when the lad luid gone to the horse’s head, Yolando 
got down, for she always walked this steep liill, whether 
going or coming, and of course no men-folk could remain 
in the vehicle when she was on foot. So she and the 
Master now set out together. 

“I hope they have been having good sport at Allt-n;im- 
Ba,” he said. 

“ Oh yes.” 

It was clear that his unaccountable refusal of her invita- 
tion had surprised her, and her manner was distinctly 
reserved. Seeing tliat, he took the more pains to please 
her. 

“ Macleay has done the stag’s head very well,” said lie 
“and I have no doubt Mr. Shortlands will be proud of it 
Pity it isn’t a royal ; but still it is a good head. It is 
curious how people’s ideas change as they go on preserving 
stag’s heads. At first it is everything they shoot, no matter 
what, and every head must be stuffed. Then they begin to 
find that expensive, and they take to boiling the heads, 
keeping only the skull and the horns. Then they begin to 
improve their collection by weeding out the second and 
third rate heads, which tliey give to their friends. And 
then, in the end, they are quite disappointed with anything 
short of a royal. I went in to Macleay’s a day or two ago 
an(i asked him to push on with that head. I thought Mr. 
Shortlands would like to see how it looked, hung up in the 
lodge, and I thought you might like to see it too.” 


YOLANDE. 


257 


» It was s^ery kind of you,” she said. 

“ Has the great hare drive come off ? ” he asked — and 
iiirely he was trying to be as pleasant as he could be. “ Oh, 
I think you said it was to be to-morrow. I should like to 
linve gone with them; but, to tell you the truth, Yolande, 
I am a little bit ashamed. Your father has been too kind 
to me ; that is tlie fact. Of course if we had the forest in our 
own liands it would not matter so much, for your fatlier 
then might have a return invitation to go for a day or. two’s 
deer-stalking. But with everything let, you see, I am 
helpless ; and your fatlier’s kindness to me lias be<3n almost 
enbarrassing. Then there is another thing. My father 
and aund are odd people. They live too much in seclusion ; 
they have got out of the way of entertaining friends, be- 
cause, with the forest and the shooting always let, they 
could scarcely ask any one to come and live in sucli a remote 
place. It is a ]>ity. Look at the other families in Itiverness- 
sliire; look at Lord Lovat, look at Lord Seaheld, look at 
tlie Mackintosli, and these ; they go out into the world ; 
they don’t box themselves up in one place. But then we are 
poor folk ; that is one reason, perhaps ; and my father 
has just one mania in his life — to improve the condition of 
Lynn ; and so he has not gone about, perhaps, as others 
might have done.” 

^Now it sounded well in her ears that this young man 
should be inclined to make excuses for his father, even 
wlien, as she suspected, the domestic relations at the Tow- 
ers were somewhat strained, and she instantly adopted a 
more friendly tone toward him. 

“ Ah,” said she, “ what a misfortune yesterday ! The 
red shepherd came running in to say that there were some 
deer up the glen of the AUt Crom ; and of course everyone 
hurried away — my papa and Mr. Shortlands to two of the 
passes. What a misfortune ! there being no one with the 
beaters. They came upon them — yes, a stag and four hinds 
—quite calmly standing and nibbling, and away— -away 
they went up the hill, not going near either of the guns. 
Was it not sad ?” 

“ Not for the deer.” 

“ And my papa not to have a stag’s head to take back 
as well as Mr. Sliortlands ! ” she said, in great disappoint- 
ment. 

“ Oh, but if you like he shall have a liner head to Lake 




258 


YOLANDE. 


years of those odd chances. I will give him one I sliot — 
with three horns. I have always had a clear understanding 
about that : anything I shoot is mine — it doesn’t belong to 
tlie furniture of Lynn Towers. And I will give that head 
to your father, if you like ; it is a very remarkable one, I 
can assure you.” 

“ That is kind of you,” she said. They were on more 
friendly terms now; she had forgiven him. 

When they got to the summit of the hill they got into 
the dog-cart, and descended the other side, and drove away 
tlirougli the wooded and rocky country. She seemed 
pleased to be on better terms with him, and he, on his part, 
was particularly good-natured and friendly. But when 
they drew near to Gress she grew a little more thoughtful. 
She could not quite discard those hints slie had received. 
Then her father’s anxious trouble — was that merely caused 
by the disagreement that had broken out between the Mas- 
ter and his relatives? If that were all, matters would 
mend, surely. She, at all events, was willing to let time 
work his healing wonders ; she was in no hurry, and cer- 
tainly her pride was not deejdy wounded. She rather 
liked the Master’s excuses for those old people who lived so 
much out of the world. And she was distinctly glad that 
now there was no suspicion of coldness between herself and 
him. 

There was no one visible at Gress, and they drove on 
without stopping. When they arrived at the bridge the 
Master got down to open the swinging iron-gate, telling 
Sandy to keep his seat, and it was not worth his while to 
get up again. 

“Now,” said Yolande, brightly, “I hope you will 
change your mind and come along to-morrow morning to 
Ailt-)iam-Ba, and go with the gentlemen, after all. It is to 
be a great affair.” 

“ I will see if I can manage it,” said he, evasively ; and 
then they bade each other good-by, and she drove on. 

But although they had seen no one at Gress, Jack Mel 
ville had seen them. He was far up the hillside, seated on 
some bracken among the rocks, and his elbows were on his 
knees, and his head resting on his hands. He had gone 
away up there to be perfectly alone — to think over all that 
he was to say to Yolande on the next day. It was a terri- 
ble task, and he knew it. 


YOLANDE. 259 

He saw them drive by, and his heart had a great pity 
for this girl. 

“ The evening is coming over the sky now,'’ he was 
thinking, as he looked around, “ and she lias left behind her 
the last of the light-hearted days of her life.” 


CHAFER XXXII. 

FABULA NARRATUR. 

Early next morning (for he was anxious to get this 
painful thing over) he walked slowly and thoughtfully up 
to Allt-nam-Ba. He knew' she was at home, for the dog- 
cart had gone by with only Sandy in it. Perhaps she might 
be indoors, worldng at the microscope he had lent her, or 
arranging her idants. 

She had seen him come up the strath ; she wms at the 
door awaiting him, her face radiant. 

“Ah! but why are you so late?” she cried. “They 
are all aw^ay, shepherds and gillies and all, two hours ago.” 

“ I did not mean to go wdth them. I have come to have 
a chat w'ith you, Yolande, if you will let me.” 

He spoke carelessly, but there was something in his 
look that she noticed ; and when she had preceded him into 
the little drawing-room, she turned and regarded him. 

“What is it? Is it serious?” she said, scanning his 
face. 

Well, he had carefully planned how^ he would approach 
the subject, but at this moment all his elaborate designs 
w'ent clean away from his brain. A far more happy expe- 
dient than any he had thought of had that instant occurred 
to him. He would tell her this story as of some one else. 

“ It is serious in a way,” said he, “ for I am troubled 
about an unfortunate plight that a friend of mine is in. 
Wliy should I bother you about it? But still you miglit 
give me your advice.” 

“ My advice ? ” she said. “ If it would be of any service 
to you, yes, yes. But how could it be ? What experience 
of the world have I had ?” 

“ It isn’t a question of experience of the world ; it is a 
question of human nature mostly,” 'said he. “ And this 


260 


YOLAJVDE. 


friend of mine is a girl just about your o’w nage. You 
might tell me what you would do in the same circum* 
stances.” 

“ But I might do something very foolish.” 

“ I only want to know what you would naturally feel 
inclined to do. That is the question. You could easily 
tell me that ; a?.d I could not find it out for myself — no, 
not if I were to set all my electric machines going.” 

“ Ah ! well, I will listen very patiently, if I am to be 
the judge,” said she. “ And I am glad it is not anything 
v/orse. I thought, when you came in, it was something 
very serious.” 

He did not wish to be too serious ; and indeed he man- 
aged to tell her the whole story in a fashion so plain, mat- 
ter-of-fact, and unconcerned that she never for an instant 
dreamed of its referring to herself. Of course he left out 
all details and circumstances that might positively have 
given her a clue, and only described the central situation 
as between mother and daughter. And Yolande had a 
great compassion for that poor debased woman, and some 
pity, too, for the girl who was ke])t in ignorance of her 
mother being alive ; and she sat, with her hands clasped 
on her knees, regarding these two imaginary figures, as it 
were, and too much interested in them to remember that 
her counsel was being asked concerning them. 

“Now, you see, Yolande,” he continued, “it ap>pears 
that one of the results of using those damnable — I beg your 
pardon — I really beg your pardon — I mean those — those 
poisonous drugs is that the will entirely goes. The j^oor 
wretches have no command over themselves ; they live in 
a dream; they will promise anything — they will make the 
most solemn vows of abstinence — and be quite unable to 
resist the temptation. And the law practically puts no 
clieck on the use of these fiendish things ; even when the 
[)ublic-houses are closed, the chemist’s shop is open. Now, 
Yolande, I have a kind of theory or project with regard to 
that poor woman. I don’t know whether the doctors 
would approve of it, but it is a fancy I have : let us sup- 
pose that that poor wretch of a mother does not quite un- 
derstand that her daughter has grown up to be a woman — * 
most likely she still regards her as a child ; that is a vei-y 
common thiuf^— at all events, she is not likely to know 
anything as to what her daughter is like. And sup})Ose 
that this daughter were to go to her mother and declare 


/ 


YOLANDE., 


26 1 

herself : do you uot tbii:k that that would be enough to* 
startle her o\it of her dream ? and do you not think that in 
the bewilderment of finding their relations reversed — Ihe 
child, grown to be a woman, assuming a kind of protection 
and authority and command over the broken-down creature 
— she might be got to rely on that help, and encouraged 
and strengthened by constant care and affection to retrie\e 
herself? Don’t you think it is possible? To be startled 
out of that dream by shame and horror ; then the wonder 
of having that beautiful daughter for her champion and pro- 
tectress ; then the continual reward of her companionship : 
don’t you tliink it is possible?” 

“ Oh yes — oh yes, surely ! ” said the girl. “ Surely you 
are right ! ” 

“ But then, Yolande, I am afraid you don’t understand 
what a terrible business it will be. It will demand tlie most 
constant watchfulness, for these drugs are easy to get, and 
people that use tiiem are very cunning. And it will require 
a long time — perliaps years — before one could be certain 
that the woman was saved. Now look at it from the other 
side. Might not one say, ‘ That poor woman’s life is gone, 
is done for: why should you destroy this other young life 
in trying to save a wreck ? Why should you destroy one 
happy human existence in tiwing to rescue the mere rem- 
nant of another human existence, that would be worthless 
and useless even if you succeed ? Why should not the girl 
live her owmlife in peace and happiness?’ ” 

“ But that is not what you would say ; that is not what 
you think,” she said, confidently. “And do you ask what 
the girl would tiiink? — for I can tell you that. Oh yes, I 
can tell you — she would despise any one who offered her 
such a choice ? ’’’ 

“ But she would be in ignorance, Yolande ; she would 
know nothing about it.” 

“ She ought not to be in ignorance, then ! Why do they 
n jt tell her? Why not ask herself what she wdll do? Ah, 
and ail this time the poor wmman left to herself — it was not 
right — it was not just.” 

“ But she has not been left to herself, Yolande. Every- 
thing has been tried — everything but this. And that’is why 
I have come to ask you what you think a girl in that 2)osi- 
tion would naturally do. What would she do if she w'ere 
told?” 

“ There cannot be a doubt,” she exclaimed. “ Oh, there 


262 


YOLAuVDE. 


•cannot be a doubt! You — I know what your feelin<y is, 
what your opinion is. And yet you hesitate ? Why ? Go, 
and you will see what her answer will be.” 

“ Do you mean to say, Yolande,” he said, deliberately, 
and regarding fier at the same time, “ that you have no 
doubt whatever? You say I am to go and ask this young 
girl to sacrifice her life — or it may be only a part, .but that 
the best part, of her life — on this chance of rescuing a poor 
b ro ken -d o w n c r eat u re — ” 

“ Her mother^’' said Yolande. 

“ What will she think of me, I wonder?” he said, ab 
gently. 

ddie answer was decisive : — 

“ If she is the girl that you say, oh, I know how she will 
be grateful to you. She will bless you. She will look on 
you as the best and dearest of her friends, who had 
courage when the others wei’e afraid, who had faith in her.” 

“ Yolande,” said he, almost solemnly, “ you have de- 
cided for yourself.” 

“ I ? ” she said, in amazement. 

“ Your mother is alive.” 

She uttered a sharp cry — of pain, it seemed. 

“ My mother — my mother — like that ! ” 

For a time this agony of shame and horror deprived her 
of all power of utterance ; tlie blow had fallen heavily. 
Her most cherished and beautiful ideals lay broken at her 
feet ; in their place was this stern and ghastly picture that 
he had placed before her mental eyes. He had not softened 
down any of the details ; it was necessary that she should 
know the truth. And she had been so much interested in 
the story, as he patiently put it before her, that now she 
had but little difficulty — alas ! she had no difficulty at all — 
in placing herself in the position of that imaginary daugh- 
ter, and realizing what she had to face. 

He waited He had faith in her courage ; but he would 
give her time. This was a sudden thing to happen to a girl 
of nineteen. 

“ Well,” she said at length, in a low voice, “ 1 will go.” 

Her hands were tightly clinched togethei*, but she 
showed' no symptom of faltering. Presently she said, in the 
same steady, constrained way, — 

“ I will go at once. Does papa know you were coming 
here to-day to tell me? ” 

“Yes. He could not do it himself, Yolaiiude. He has 


YOLANDE. 


263 


fearfully during these long years in order to hide 
tills from you ; he thought it would only pain you to know 
— that you could do no good.” 

“ What induced him to change his mind ? ” 

He was embarrassed ; he bad not expected the 'Question. 
She glanced at his face. 

“ Was that the objection at Lynn Towers?” she said, 
Ctilmly. 

“ Ho, Yolande, no ; it was not. I daresay Lord Lynn 
does not quite approve of your father’s politics ; but that 
has nothing to do with you.” 

“ Then it was your idea that I should be told ? ” 

“ Well,” said he, uneasily, “possibly your father im- 
agined that Archie Leslie might not like — might think he 
had been unfairly treated if he were not told — and then I 
was his friend, don’t you see, and they mentioned the mat- 
ter to me — and — and being an outsider, I was reluctant to 
interfere at first — but then, when they spoke of telling you, 
I said to myself that I knew, or I fancied I knew what a 
girl like Yolande Winterbourne would be sure to do in such 
circumstances — and so I thought I would venture the sug- 
gestion to them, and — and if it turned out to be so, then 1 
might be of some little help to you.” 

That was cleverly done ; he had not told her it was 
the Master of Lynn who had insisted on that disclosure. 

And now she was gathering her courage to her, though 
still she maintained a curious sort x constrained reserve as 
though she were keeping a tigh^ aold over her feelings. 

“ I suppose,” she said sic ,iy, “ it is your idea 1 should 
go there — alone ? ” 

“If you are not afraid, Yolande — if you are not afraid,” 
he said, anxiously. 

“ I am not afraid.” 

“ Don’t you see, Yolande,” he said, eagerly, “ if you go 
accompanied by a stranger, she may think it is a solicitor — ■ 
people in that weak mental state are usually suspicious — 
and if you go with your father ^she would probabl)' only 
consider it a repetition of former interviews that came to 
nothing. No ; it is the appearance of her daughter that will 
startle her into sudden consciousness of what she is. Tlieii 
don’t mind those people she is with. Don’t be afraid of thorn. 
They dare not detain her. You will have a policeman wait- 
ing outside ; and your maid will go into the house witli you 
and wait in the |)assage. You will have to assume authority, 


2G4 


VOL A //BE. 


your motlier may be a bit dazed, poor woman; you must take 
her with you ; let no one interfere. Now do you think you 
liave nerve for that — all by yourself?” 

“Oh, yes, I think so,” she said calmly. “But I must 
begin at the beginning. I cannot leave the lodge without 
})utting some one in charge.” 

“ I will send up Mrs. Bell, she will be delighted.” 

“ Ah, will you ? ” she said, with a quick glance of grath 
tude breaking through her forced composure “ If only she 
would be so kind as to do that ! She knows everything 
that is wanted.” 

“ Don’t trouble yourself about that for a moment,” he 
said. “ Mrs. Bell will be delighted; there is nothing she 
would not do for you.” 

“ Then I must take away my things with me. Perhaps 
I shall not see Allt-nain-Ba again. My life will be altered 
now. Where do I go wlien I reach London ? ” 

“ I should say the hotel your father and you were at 
once or twice, in Albemarle Street. But are you sure, Yo- 
lande, you would rather not have some one go witli you 
to London and see you to your quarters in the hotel ? 
wliy, I would myself — with pleasure, for my assistant 
Dnlr} mple gets on very well in the school now. Or Mr. 
Shorthands. — he is going south soon, is he not ? I would not 
ask your father; it would be too painful for him.” 

“No,” she said, “I do not want anyone. Jane and 
I will do very well. Besides, I could not wait for Mr. Short- 
lands. I am going at once. 

“ At once ! Surely you will take time to consider — ” 

“ 1 am going to-morrow.” she said, “ if Mrs. Bell will 
be so kind as to come and take my place.” 

“ Don’t be so precipitate, Yolande,” he said, with some 
anxiety. “ I have put all tins before you for your considera- 
tion, and I should feel I was burdened with a terrible respon- 
sibility if you were to do anything you might afterward 
regret. Will you consult Mr. Shortlands? ” 

She shook her head. 

“ Will you take a week to think over it ? ” 

“No; why?” she said, simply. “ Did I not consider 
when you were telling me tlie story of this imaginary girl ? 
Had I any doubt? No. I knew what she wo aid decide. I 
know what I have decided. What use is there in delay? 
Ah, if there is to be the good come out of it that you have 
imagined for me, should I not haste? When one is perish* 


YOLANDE, 


265 


ing you do uot think twice if yon can hold out your hand. 
Do you think that I regret — that I am sorry to leave a 
little comfort behind — that I am afraid to take a little 
trouble? Surely you do not think that of me ? Why I am 
anxious to go now is to see at once what can be done; to 
know the worst or the best ; to try. And now* — I shall not 
be speaking to my papa about it; that would only give pain 
• — will you tell me what I should do in all the small particu- 
lars ? I am not likely to forget.” 

That he could do easily, for he had thought enough 
over the matter. He gave her the most minute instructions, 
guarding against this or that possibility, and she listened 
mutely and attentively, with scarcely the interruption of a 
question. Then, at length, he rose to say good-by, and she 
rose too. He did not notice that, as she did so, her lips 
quivered for the briefest second. 

He hesitated. 

‘‘ If you are going to-morrow, Yolande,” said he, “ I will 
see you as you pass. I will look out for you. I should like 
to say good-by to you ; it may be for a long time.” 

“ It may be for always,” she said, with her eyes cast 
down ; “ perhaps I siiall never be back here again.” 

“ And I am sending you away into all this trouble and 
grief. How can I help knowing that it is I who am doing 
it ? And perhaps, day after day and night after night, I 
sliall be trying to justify myself, when I am thinking over 
it, and wondeidng where you are ; and perhaps I shall not 
succeed very well.” 

“ But it is I who justify you — that is enough,” she said, 
in a low voice. “ Did I not decide for myself? And I 
know that in your heart you think I am doing right ; and 
if you are afraid for me — well, that is only kindness — such 
is that you have always shown to me.” 

Here she stopped ; and he did not see that her hands 
were clinched firm, as she stood there opposite him, with 
her eyes cast down. 

“And whatever happens, Yolande — you may be in pain 
and grief, and perhaps all you may endure may only end 
in bitter disappointment — well, I hope you will not imagine 
that I came to you with my proposal unthinkingly. I have 
thought over it night and day. I did not come to you 
offhand.’' 

“ Ah, then,” said she, quickly, “ and you think it is 
neccessary to justify yourself — you, to me, as if I did not 


2GG 


VOLANDE. 


know yon as well as I know myself ! Do yon think I do not 
know you and understand you — because I am only a girl?” 
Her forced composure was breaking down altogether ; she 
was trembling somewhat ; and now there were tears running 
down her cheeks, despite herself, though she regarded him 
bravely, as if she would not acknowledge that. “And you 
asked me what the girl you spoke of would think of tlie man 
who came to her and showed her what she should do. Did 
I not answer ? I said she would know then that he was the 
one who had faith in her; tliat she would give him her 
gratitude; that she would know wdm was her best and 
truest friend. And now, just as you and I are about to say 
good-by, perhaps forever, you think it is necessary for you 
to justify yourself to me — you, my best friend — my more 
than friend — ” 

And then — ah, who can tell how such things happen, or 
which is to bear the blame? — his arms were round her trem- 
bling figure, and she was sobbing violently on his breast. 
And what was tins wild thing she said, in the bewilderment 
of her grief : “ Oh, why, why was my life given away before 
I ever saw you ? ” 

“ Yolande,” said he, with his face very pale, “I am go- 
ing to say something ; for this is our last meeting. What 
can a few words matter — my darling! — if we are never to 
see each other again ? I love you. I shall love you while 
I have life. Why should I not say it for this once ? I 
blinded myself; I tried to think it friendship — friendship, 
and the world was just filled with light whenever I saw 
you ! It is our last meeting ; you will let me say this for 
once — how can it harm you ? ” 

She shrank out of liis embrace ; she sank down on the 
couch there, and turned away her head and hid her face in 
her hand. 

“Gb! go!” she murmured. “What have I done? 
For pity's sake go — and forget ? Forget ! ” 

He knelt down by the side of the couch ; and he was 
paler than ever now. 

“ Yolande, it is for you to forget and forgive. I have 
been a traitor to my friend ; I have been a traitor to you. 
You shall never see me again. God bless you ! — and 
good-by ! ” 

He kissed her hair, and rose, and got himself out of the 
house. As he went dowm that w'ide strath — his eyes fixed 
on nothing, like one demented^ and his mind wdiirling this 


YOLANDE. 


267 


way and tliat amid . clouds of remorse and reproach and 
immeasurable pity — it seemed to him that he felt on his 
brow the weight of the brand of Cain. 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

PREPARATIONS . 

And as for h.cr : she wms stunned almost into uncon- 
ciousness by this shock of self-abasement and distress. She 
lay on the sofa, her face covered with her hands ; she could 
not face the light. What was she then ? — she who hitherto 
had been so fearless and so proud. A flirt, a jilt, a light o’ 
-love — that was how she saw herself; and then there w^as 
herself ; and then there w'as a kind of despair over the 
misery she had wrought, and a yearning to have him back 
to implore his pity and his forgiveness ; and then sudden 
resolves to free herself in another direction, at any cost of 
penitence and humiliation. She began to compose hurried, 
brief messages, though the throbbing brain and the shame- 
stricken soul could scarce decide between the fitness of 
them. These were some of them, — 

“ Dear Papa, — I have gone away. Tell Archie not to 
think any moi'e about me. Yolande.” 

And then again, — 

“Dear Archie — I send you back the engagement ring: 
I am not worthy to be your wife. I am sorry if I have 
caused you any disappointment, but you have less to regret 
than I have.” 

And then again — to one not named at all, — 

“To-day I go away. Xever think of me again, or of 
what has happened. Forgive me ; that is all.” 

And then she began to think — if this wild torture of sug- 
gestions could be called thinking — of the undertaking that 
lay before her, and the thought of it was something of a re- 
lief. There would be an occupation, urgent, continuous, de- 
manding all her attention ; in time, and in a measure, she 
might school herself to forget. Perhaps, if this duty turned 
out to be a very sad and painful one, it might be taken by 


2G8 


YOLANDE. 


those whom she had wronged as a sort of penance ? She 
was prepared to suffer. Slie thought she deserved to suf- 
fer. Plad she not proved a traitor to the man whom she had 
promised to marry ? Had she not brought misery to this 
best and dearest of all her friends, to tins fine and noble 
nature that she had learned to know, and that by her idle- 
ness and carelessness — the carelessness of a vain coquette 
and light-o’-love, heedless of consequences? What would 
lie tliink of her ? She could only vaguely recall tlie re- 
proaches he had heaped upon himself ; but she knew tliat 
he was in distress, and that she was the cause of it. And 
perliaps if there were trials in store for her, if there was suf- 
fering in store for her, perliaps he would never know that 
she rather welcomed that, and was content to receive her pun- 
ishment? Perhaps lie would never know how grieved she 
was ? It was over and done, not past recall. And she 
knew that henceforth her life would be quite different to 
her. 

How long she lay there in that misery of her remorse 
and despair she probably never knew, but at last she forced 
herself to rise. She was not thinking of her appearance ; 
she did not know that her face was haggard and pale ; that 
an expression never before there was there now ; that her 
eyes were no longer the eyes of a child. She was going 
away — this was all she was compelling herself to think about 
— and tliere were preparations to be made. And so in a 
slow and mechanical fashion she began to put a few things 
together, even in this drawing-room, although every other 
minute her heart seemed to stand still as she came upon 
some little trifle that was associated with him — something 
he had done for her, something th>t he had brought her, 
showing his continued solicitude and thoughtfulness and af- 
fection. Why had she not seen? Why did she not under- 
stand ? And then she began to think of the evenings he 
had spent at the house, and of the walks they had had to- 
gether down the wide valley ; and she began to know why 
it was that these evenings had seemed so rich in ha])py 
human sympathies, and why the valley had appeared so won- 
drous and beautiful, and why her life at Allt-iiam-Ba had so 
strange and unnamable a charm thrown over it. And ho — 
he had been blind too. She knew that he could not have 
imagined it possible that he was betraying his friend ; oth(?r- 
wise he would have fled from the ]flace. She was standing 
quite still now, her eyes distraught, and she was trying 


YOLANDE. 


269 


recall tlie very tones in which he had said, “ I love yon.” 
That was the misery of it, and the cause of her shame, and 
the just reason for her remorse and self-abasement; and 
yet — and yet somewhere or other deep down in her heart 
there was a curious touch of pride that she heard those 
words. If circumstances had been different — to be a])- 
proved, to have won the affection, to be loved by one like 
that! And then a passion of selfcontem]^ seized her, and 
she said to herself : You to think yourself worlliy of s\ich 
a loA^e ! Yon, who cam allow yourself to think of such a 
thiims with that riim on your fiimer ! ” 

This also was strange, that, amid all the preparations 
for departure that she was now mechanically making, she 
should be possessed by a singular anxiety that Mrs. Bell, 
when she came to Allt-nam-Ba, should find the household 
arrangements in the most perfect order. Had she some 
vague hope or fancy, then, that some day or other, when 
she should be far enough away from Allt-nam-Ba andGress 
and Lynn, and not likely to see any of them again, her 
name might be mentioned casually by this good woman, 
and mentioned perhaps with some slight word of approval ? 
When she drew out for Mrs. Bell’s guidance a list of her 
arrangements with the Inverness tradesmen, she was dis- 
satisfied with the mere handwriting of it (for indeed her 
fingers trembled somewhat), and she destroyed it and wrote 
out another, and that she destroyed, and wrote out another 
— until the handwriting was fairly clear and correct. 

Her maid Jane was a fool of a woman, but even she 
could see that her young mistress was faint-looking, and 
even ill-looking, and again and again she besought her to 
desist from these preparations, and to go and have some 
lunch, which awaited her in the dining-room. 

“ You know, miss,” said she, “You can’t go before 
your papa comes home, and then it would be far too late 
to catch the steamer. You can’t go before the morning; 
and I am sure, miss, you will be quite ill and unable to 
travel if you don’t eat something.” 

Well, Yolande went into the dining.room, and sat down 
at the table ; but slie could not eat or drink anything ; and 
in a minute or two she was back again in her bedroom su- 
perintending tlie packing of her trunks. However she was 
in time comjielled to desist. The mental agitation of the 
morning, combined with tins want of food, produced the 
naturarresult ; she gradually acquired a violent headache 


YOLANDE. 


iiTO 

— a headache so violent that further superintendence oi 
packing or anything else was entirely out of the question. 
Now it was the literal fact that she had never had a head- 
ache in her life — excej^t once, at the chateau, when a large 
volume she was reaching for in the library fell and struck 
her — and she did not know what to do ; but she fancied 
that by tying a wet towel round her head she might lessen 
the throbbing of the temples; and this she did, lying down 
the while. Jane stole out of the room, fancying her young 
inisti ess might now get some sleep. The girl was not 
thinking of sleep. 

Mr. Winterbourne and John Sliortlands were on their 
way back from the hill. 

“ I scarcely know what has happened to-day,” Mr. Win- 
terbourne was saying. “ All the time I have been thinking 
of our going back. And I know what I shall find when I 
go back — the wreck of the happiness that I have so care- 
fully nursed all through these years. It is like hedging 
i‘ound a garden, and growing flowers there, and all at once, 
some morning, you find the place trampled down and a 
wilderness. I hope I am not unjust, Sliortlands, but I 
think he might have spared her.” 

“ Who ? ” 

“ Young Leslie. I think he might have spared her. It 
was not much. Don't you think — out of consideration — ” 

“Nonsense, man. What young Leslie has done seems 
to me, on reflection, perfectly, just, and right, and reason- 
able,” said John Shortlands, telling a lie in the calmest man- 
ner possible. “ The young people ought not to be ham- 
])ered in starting life. A little trouble now — what is that? 
And it will be better for you too. Winterbourne. You 
would have kept on worrying yourself. You would have 
been always apprehensive about something. You would 
liave re])roached yourself for not telling him.” 

, “ I am not thinking of myself,” Yolande’s father said, 

rather wistfully. “ I could have borne all that ; I am used 
to it. It is about her I am thinking. I remember in Egypt 
awiiy up at that still place, wondering whether all her life 
might not be just as quiet and uneventful and happy as it 
was there,” 

“ The fact is. Winterbourne,” said John Shortlands, 
bluntly, “ you are just mad about that child of 'yours, and 
you expect the world to be changed all on her account ; 
whereas every reasonable being knows that she must taka 


YOLANDE. 


*271 


her chance of trouble as well as others. And this — what 
is this ? Is it so great an affair? You don’t know yet 
whether she will follow out that suggestion of Melville’s. 
Perha];)s she won’t. If you would rather she should not, 
no doubt she will abide by your wishes. By this time she 
has been told. The secret is at an end. Leslie has had 
what he wanted : what the devil more can he ask for?” 

But the asperity of this last phrase rather betrayed his 
private opinion ; and so he added quickly : — . 

“ However, as you say, she is more likely to go. Well, 
why not look at the brighter side of things ? There is a 
possibility. Oh, you needn’t shake your liead ; when I look 
at the whole thing from Melville’s point of view I can see 
the possibility. He’s a devilish long-headed fellow that, 
and a devilish fine fellow too ; not many men would have 
bothered their heads as he has done. I wouldn’t. If you 
and I weren’t old friends, do you think I would have inter- 
fered ? I’d. have let you go on your own way. But now, 
old chap, I think you’ll find Yolande ready to go ; and 
you’d better not make too much fuss about it, and frighten 
the girl. I shall be in London ; I shall see she has plenty 
of money.” 

“ It seems so inhuman,” her father said, absently. 

“What?” 

“ That I should remain here shooting, and she be al- 
lowed to go away tliere alone.” 

“ My dear fellow she’ll get on twenty times better with- 
out you,” said Shortlands, plainly. “It seems to me that 
what you say Melville pointed out to you, was just the per- 
fection of good advice. You'll do well to abide by it.” 

“ But he does not know Yolande as I do,” her father 
said. 

“ He seems to have made a thundering good guess, any- 
way.” 

“ I don’t mean that. He does not know how she has 
been brought up — always looked after and cared for. She 
has never been allowed to shift about for herself. Oh, as 
regards herself I can see ^vell enough that he imagines she 
has certain qualities, and perhaps he thinks it rather fine to 
make experiments. Well, I don’t. I don’t see why Yolande 
should be made the victim of any experiment ; I am con- 
tent with her as she is.” 

“ You’d better see what she says about ft herself.” 

When they reached the lodge Yolande was not, as 


272 


YOLANDE, 


usual, standing in the porch to welcome them home from 
the hill. 

“ Please, sir,” said the maid, “ Miss Winterbourne has a 
headache, and says would you excuse her coming dowm to 
dinner.” 

He stood irresolute for a second or two, obviously 
greatly disturbed ; then he slowly and thoughtfully 'went up 
tlie stairs, and gently knocked at the door of her room. 

“May I come in, Yolande? ” 

She had just time to untie the wet towel from her head, 
to smooth her bair, and sit up in bed. 

“Yes, papa.” 

He entered, went over and drew a chair near to her, 
and sat down. 

“ I am sorry for you Yolande,” he said in a low voice, 
and his eyes were nervously bent on the ground. 

“ Why, ])apa ? ” 

She spoke in quite a cheerful way ; and as he had not 
suffered his eyes to meet hers, he was unaware how that 
cheerfulness was belied by tlie strange expression in them. 
She 'was forcing herself to make light of this matter ; she 
'would not have him troubled. And perhaps, indeed, to her 
tliis was in truth a light matter, as compared with that 
tragic disclosure and its consequences 'which seemed to 
have cut away from hera^.once, and forever, the shining and 
rose-colored years of her youth. 

“ If I erred, Yolande,’’ said lie, “ in keeping all this back 
from you, I did it for tlie best.” 

“ l)o you need to say that to me, papa ? ” she answered, 
w’ith some touch of reproach. 

“ I thought it would save you needless pain,” said he ; 
and then, as he ventured to lift his eyes, lie caught sight of 
the pale, anguish-stricken face, and he nearly cried aloud in 
his sudden alarm, “ Yolande, are you ill?” 

“ Oh no, papa ; ” and she did try her best to look very 
cheerful. “ I have a headache — that is all ; and it is not so 
bad as it was. I — I have been seeing things packed, and 
in a king arrange! n e n ts .” 

“You are going, Yolande?’’ he said, with a sinking of 
the heart. 

“ That, again, it is unnecessary for you to ask me,” the 
girl said, simply. 

“ Ibit not at once, Yolande?” said he, glancing at an 
open trunk. “ Xot at once ? ” 


YOLANDE 


273 


“ To-morrow morning, papa,” she answered. “ Oii, but I 
assure you, you will be put to no trouble, no trouble at all. 
Mrs. Ikdlis coining from Gress to see everything right. And 
I liave made out lists for her; it is all arianged; you 
will not know any difference — ” 

“ Yob'.nde, you will make me angry if you talk like that. 
What signifies our comfort? It is the notion of your going 
away by yourself — ” 

“Jane goes with me. That is all arranged also,” she 
said. “ I have no fear.” 

“Listen, now, Yolande. I don't disapprove of your go- 
ing. We have tried everything, and failed; if there is a 
chance of your succeeding — well, perhaps one might say it 
is your duty to go. Poor child, I would rather have had 
you know nothing about it; but that is all over now. Well, 
you see, Yolande, if you go, there must be no unnecessary 
risk or trouble about vour going. I have been thinking 
that perhaps Mr. Melville may be a little too imaginative. 
He sees things strongly. And in insisting that you should 
go alone, why, there may be a danger that ho has been 
cari-ied away by a — by a — well, I don’t know how to put 
it, except that he may be so anxious to have this striking 
ajjpeal made to your ];oor moth-er as to be indifferent to 
oi’d inary precautions. Why should you go friendless and 
alone ? Ydiy should I remain amusing myself here? ” 

“Because you would be of no use to me, papa,” said 
she, calmly. “ I know what I have to do.” 

“ Why, then, sliould you not wait for a few days, and 
travel south with Mr. Shortlands ? ” 

“ Oh, I must go at once, papa — at once ! ” she exclaimed, 
“ I must go to-morrow. And Jane goes with me. Is it not 
simple enough ? ” 

“Yolande, you can not be left in London with absolute- 
ly no one to whom you can appeal. The least you must 
do is to take a letter to Lawrence Lang. They will do 
anything you want ; they will let you have what you want; 
if there is any hiring of lodgings or anything of that kind, 
they will send one of their clerks. You cannot be stranded 
in London without the chance of assistance, you must go 
to Lawwence & Lang.” 

“ I may have to go to them — that also is arranged. But 
they must not interfere, they must not come with me ; that 
was not Mr. Melville’s idea,” she said ; though the pale face 
turned still paler afs she forced lierself to utter the name. 


274 


YOLANDE, 


‘‘ Mr. Melville ! ” he said, angrily. “ You seem to think 
the whole wisdom of the world is centred in Mr. Melville . 
I don’t at all know that he was right in coming to put all 
this trouble on you. Perhaps he would not have been so 
quick if it had been his own sister or his own daughter — ” 

Then a strange thing occurred. She had flung herself 
down on the pillow again, her face buried, her wliole frame 
shaken by the sudden violence of her crying. 

Don’t — don’t — don’t ! ” she sobbed, piteously. “ Don’t 
speak like that, papa ! There is enough trouble— there is 
enough.” 

“ What is it, Yolande?” said he. “ Well, no wonder 
your nerves have been upset. I wonder you have taken it 
BO bravely. I will leave you now, Yolande ; but you must 
try and come down to dinner.” 

Dinner was put on the table ; but she did not make her 
appearance. A message was sent up to her ; the answer 
was that she merely wished to have a cup of lea by and by. 
Jane, on being questioned, said that everything had been 
got ready for their departure the followii^g morning, even 
to the ordering of the dog-cart for a particular hour. 

“ Yes,” her father said to John Shorthands, as they sat 
rather silently at the dinner table, “ she seems bent on go- 
ing at once. Perhajis it is because she is nervous and anx- 
ious, and wants to know the worst. She won’t have any 
one with her; she is determined to keep to Melville’s plan, 
though I wanted her to wait and go south with you. What 
a dreadful thing it would be if any harm were to befal 
her — ” 

“ Why, what harm can befal lu!cr?” his friend said. 
“ What is a journey to London ? — nothing ! She gets into 
the train at Invei-ness to-morrow at mid-day ; the next 
morning she is in London. Then a cab takes her to the 
hotel : what moi'e simple ? The real risk begins after that ; 
and it is then that your friend Melville insists that she 
should take the thing into iier own hands. Well, dang me 
if I’m afraid of the consequences ! There’s good grit in 
her. She hasn’t had her nerves destroyed, as you have. 
When the cob was scampering all over the place yesterday, 
and the groom couldn’t get hold of him, did she run into 
the house ? Not much. She waylaid him at the end of 
the bothy, and got hold of him herself, and led him to the 
stable door. I don’t think the lass has a bad temper, but I 
shouldn’t like to be the one to put a finger on her against 


YOLAiXDE. 


27f» 

her will. Don’t you fear. I can see wliere the bit of 
trouble, if there is to be any at all, will most likely come in ; 
and I am not afraid. It’s wonderful what women will do 
— ay, and weak women too — in defense of those who have 
a claim on their affection. Talk about the tigress and her 
young: a woman’s twice as bad, or twice as good, if you 
take it tliat way. I fancy some o’ those poor devils of 
School Board inspectors must have a baddish time of it 
occasionally — I don’t envy them. I tell you you needn’t 
be afraid, my good fellow. Yolande will be able to take 
care of herself. And I think Jack Melville has put her on 
to doing the right thing, vdiatever comes of it.” 

Yolande did not ap])ear that night; she was too much 
distracted by her own thoughts ; she did not Avish to be 
confronted with questioning eyes. But she found time to 
write this brief note : 

“ Tuesday night. 

“ Dear Me. Shortlands, — As it is not likely I shall 
see you in the morning, for I am going away at a very 
early houi', 1 leave you this word of good-by. And please 
■ — please stay with papa as long as ever you conveniently 
can. Duncan assures me that it is now you will be begin- 
ning to have chances with the red deer. 

Yours affectionately, 

“ Yolande Winterbourne.” 

And as to that other — the friend who was sending her 
forth on this mission — was she going away without one 
word of good-by for him ? She considered that ; and did 
not sleep much that night. 


CHAPTER XXXIY. 

“ IHE MATTEN, LEBT WOHL ! ” 

The pale clear glow of the dawn was telling on the 
higher slopes of the hills when she arose, and all the house 
was asleep. The heart searching of that long night had 
calmed her somewhat. Now she was chiefly anxious to 
get away ; to seek forgetfulness of this sad discovery in 


8 


YOLANDE. 


tlie immediate duty that lay before her. And if ??OTTietimea 
tlie fear was forced upon her that neither for him nor for 
her was forgetfulness possible, well, it was not her own 
share of tliat suffering that she regarded with dismay. 
Nay, did she not rather welcome that as a punishment 
whicii she deserved, as a penance which might be counted 
to her in the due course of yeai’s ? If this passage in her 
life was not to be obliterated, at least, and in the meantime 
ehe would endeavor to close the chapter. She was going 
away from Allt-nam-Ba, and from the mistakes and niis- 
eiies that had happened there. A new era in her life was 
opening before her ; perhaps she would have less to re- 
proach herself with in that. 

In the silence of this pale clear morning she sat down 
and wrote still another message of farewell, the terms of 
which she had carefully (and not without some smitings of 
conscience) studied during the long wakeful hours : 

“ Allt-nam-Ba, Wednesday morning. 

“ Dear Archie, — a grave duty calls me suddenly away 
to the south. No doubt you can guess what it is ; and 
you will understand how, in the meantime at least, all our 
other plans and arrangements must yield to it. Probably, 
as I am anxious to catch the early boat at Foyers, I may 
not see you to say good-by; and so I send you this message 

“ From your affectionate 
“ Yolande.” 

She regarded this letter with much self-humiliation. It 
was not frank. Perhaps she had no right to write to him 
so, without telling him of what had happened the day be- 
fore. And yet, again, Avhat time was there now for ex- 
j)lanatioii ? and perhaps, as the days and the months and 
the years went by, there might never be need of any ex- 
l^l.anation. Her life was to be all different now. 

The household began to stir. There was a crackling of 
■wood in the kitchen ; outside, Sandy could be heard open- 
ing the doors of the coachouse. Then Jane put in anappear- 
ance, to finally close her young mistress’s portmanteaux. 
And then, everything having been got ready, when she went 
downstairs to the dining-room, she was surprised to find 
her father there. 

“ Why did you get up so early ? ” said she, in pro- 
test. 


YOLANDE. 


277 


“ Do yon think I was going to let you leav^ without say- 
ing good-by ? ” he answered. “You are looking a little bet- 
ter tliis morning, Yolande — but not well, not well. Are 
you sure you won’t reconsider ? Will you not wait a few 
days, accustom yourself to think of it, and then go, if you 
will go, with Mr. Shortlands ? ” 

“ Oh no, that is all over, papa,” said she. “ That is all 
settled. I am going this morning — now.” 

“ Now? Why now ? It is only half past six ! ” he ex- 
claimed. 

“ I wish to have enough time at Gress,” she answered, 
calmly, “ to explain all the arrangements to Mrs. Bell.” 

But he compelled her to sit down and have some break- 
fast, while he remained at the window, anxious, disturbed, 
and yet for the most part silent. There was no doubt he 
regarded her going with an undefined dread ; but he saw 
that it was no use to try to dissuade her, her purpose being 
so obviously settled and clear. There was another thing : 
he showed the greatest embarrassment in talking in any 
way whatever about the subject. He could not bring him- 
self to mention his wife’s name. To Yolande he had said 
“ your poor mother” — but only once. He seemed unable 
to make this thing that he had hidden from her for so many 
years a topic of conversation. 

And it was almost in silence, and with a face overshad- 
owed with gloom, that he saw the last preparations made. 
He followed her out to the dog-cart. He himself would 
fasten the rugs round her knees, the morning being some- 
what chilly. And when tliey drove away he stood there 
for a long time regarding them, until the dog-cart disap- 
peared at the turning of the road, and Yolande was gone. 
This, then, was the end of that peaceful security that he had 
hoped to find at Allt-nam-Ba ! 

Yolande was not driving this morning; she had too 
many things to think of. But when they reached the bridge 
at the lower end of the loch, she told Sandy to stop, and 
took the reins. 

“ Here is a letter for Mr. Leslie.” she said. “ You need 
not take it up to the house; put it in the letter-box at the 
gate.” 

Then they drove on again. When they had climbed the 
liill she looked over to Lynn Towers, but she could not 
make out any one at any of the windows. There were one 
or two stable lads about the outhouses, but otherwise no 


278 


YOLANDE. 


sign of life. She was rather glad of that. If he had waved 
his handkerchief to her, could she have answered that sig« 
nal without further hypocrisy and shame? Little did he 
know what traitress was passing by. But indeed she .w as 
gradually ceasing to reproach herself in this way, for the 
reason that she was ceasing to think about herself at all. It 
was of another that she was thinking. It was his future 
that concerned her. tWhat would all his after-life be like ? 
Would there be some reparation ? Would time heal that as 
it healed all things ? 

When she got to Gress she saw that Mrs. Bell was in 
the garden behind the house, and thither she made her way. 
Yolande’s face was pale, but her manner was quite calm 
and firm. 

“Well, here are doings!” said the cheerful old lady. 
“ And I was just hurrying on to get a few bit flowers for ye. 

’ Deed,, ye’re early this morning.” 

“ It is very kind of you, Mrs. Bell ; but please do not 
trouble. You expected me, then ? Mr. — Mr. Melville told 
you ? ” 

“ That he did. And I’ll just be delighted to be of any 
kind of service to ye that is possible. I’ll be ready to go 
up to Allt-nam-Ba by mid-day ; and I’m thinking I’ll take 
one o’ the young lassies wi’ me, in case there’s any need- 
cessity for a helping band. The other one will do very Ay ell 
to look after this place when both Mr. Melville and me are 
away.” 

“ But is he going — is he going away?” said Yolande, 
Avith a sudden alarm. 

“I think he is; though it’s no my place to ask,” said 
Mrs. Bell, placidly. “Last night I saAV he Avas putting 
some things in order in the house. And I jalouse he 
stopped in the laboratory the Avhole night through for he 
never Avas in his bed ; and this morning I caught a glint o’ 
him going out before any o’ us Avas up. I dare say he Avas 
off to one o’ the moorland lochs to have a last day at the 
trout belike.” 

“ He is not here, then?” the girl exclaimed, Avith dis- 
may in her eyes. “ Mrs. Bell, I must see him ! Indeed, I 
cannot go until I have seen him.” 

“ Wha kens Avhere he may be now ? ” said the old lady, 
good-humoredly (for she clearly had no idea that there was 
anything tragic occurring around her). ■ “ There never was 
such a man for Avandering about the country like a warlock. 


YOLANDE 


279 


Mpjiy a friglit lias he gi’en the shepherds, when they came 
upon him in the corries that no ordinary Christian ever 
goes near.” 

“ Jhit you must send for him, Mrs. Bell,” said Yolande, 
with that forced calmness of demeanor almost breaking 
down. “ I can not go away without bidding him good- 
by.” 

The old woman stopped arranging the flowers she had 
gathered. 

“ I canna send to search the whole country o’ Inverness,’ 
she said, reflectively, “and wha kens where he may be? If 
he’s no back by scliooltirne he’s off for the day — ay, and 
without a biscuit in his pocket. I’ll be warrant. But it’s 
just possible lie has only gaeii doon to the burn to get a 
trout or two ; I can send one o’ the lassies to see. And 
though I’ve never kenned him to go up to the water- 
wheel at this time o’ the morning, I canna gang wrang in 
making the bell ring. If you’ll just hold the flowers for a 
minute, my dear young leddy. I’ll go into the house and 
see what can be done.” 

Slie lield the flowers mechanically ; she did not look at 
tliem ; her eyes were “ otherwhere.’! But wlien Mrs. Bell 
came back she recalled lierself ; and with such calmness as 
she could command slie showed the old lady all the ai-range- 
ments she had made with regard to the household of Allt- 
narn-Ba, and gave her the lists that she had carefully drawn 
out. And Mrs. Bell would hear of no such thing as thanks 
or gratitude ; siie said peo])le were well off who could be of 
any little service to them they liked, and intimated that she 
'was proud to do this for the sake of the young lady who 
had been kind enough to take notice of her. 

“ And so you are going away for awhile,” said the old 
Scotchwoman, cheerfully. “Ay, ay. But coming back 
soon again, I hope. Indeed, my dear young leddy, if it 
wasna a kind o’ presunijjtion on my part, I would say to ye, 
as they say in the old ballad, ‘ O when will ye be back again, 
my hinnie and my dear?’ For indeed, since ye came to 
Alll-nam-Ba, it has just been something to gladden an 
auld woman’s een,” 

“ What is the ballad, Mrs. Bell ?” Yolande said, quickly 
She wished to evade these friendly inquiries. And already 
she was beoinning to wonder whether she had enough 
strength and courage to force herself to go without seeing 
him and saying this last vord to him. 


280 


YOLANDE. 


“ The ballad ? Oh, that was tlie ballad o’ young Randal,” 
said Mrs. Boll, in her good-natured, garrulous way. “ May- 
be ye never heard that one ? — • 

Young Randal was abonnie lad when he gaed awa’, 

A braw, braw lad was he when he gaed awa’. ’ 

That is how it begins ; and then they a’ come doon to see 
fiim ride off — his father, and his mother, and his two sisters ; 
but, as ye may imagine, — 


‘ His bonnie cousin Jean lookit o’er the castle wa,’ 

And far aboon the lave let the tears doon fa’.’ 

Then it goes on ; — 

‘ “ O when will ye be back again ? ” sae kindly did sW.. spier ; 

O when will ye be back again, my hinnie and my dear ? ” 

“ As soon as I have won enougli o’ Spanish gear 
To dress ye a’ in silks and lace, my dear.” 

That was the way o’ those times, and mony a sair heart was 
the consequence. Will I tell ye tlie rest o’ the story ? ” 

“ Oh, yes, Mrs. Bell, if you please,” said Yolande tliough 
now she was scanning the vacant hillsides with a wistful 
and troubled eye. Was he not coining, then? Must she 
go away without that last word ? 

“Ye see, my young leddy, the story jumps over a good 
many years now, and he comes back to seek out his true- 
love Jean.” 

“ Yes, yes,” said Yolande, with more of interest, “to see 
whetlier she has been faithful to him, is it not? And of 
course she is. It is so easy for one to remain faithful — in a 
ballad, where nothing happens but the fancy of the poet. 
And tlien, if she was not faithful, who would write about 
her? She would be contemptible — that is all.” 

“ No so- fast, my dear young leddy — no so fast. Just 
listen to the story, — 

‘ Young Randal was an altered man when he came hame ; 

A sair altered man was he when he came hame, 

Wi’ a star on his breast and a Sir to his name, 

And wi’ gray, gray locks Sir Randal came ham e. 

‘ He rode to tlie castle and he rispit at the ring. 

And down came onr laily to bid him ride in'; 

And ronnd lier bonnie bairnics were playin’ on the green : 

‘ Can tiiis auld wife be my true-love Jean,*? ” 


YOLANDE. 


2S! 


‘ “ And wliatna dour au.i carle is this ? ” quotli tlie dame. 

“ Sae griff and sae stiff, sae feckless and sac lame 
Quoth he : ‘‘ My honnie leddy, were ye sweet Jeanie Graham ? ” 

“Indeed, good sir, ye have guessed my veiy name.” 

‘ Oh, dool on the wars in the High Germanie ! 

And dool on the poortith o’ our ain countrie ! 

And dool on the heart that unfaithful can be ! — 

For they’ve wrecked the bravest man in the whole countrie ! ” * 

Ye see, it’s a sad story enough ; but I’m no sure whether t(? 
blame the wars in the High Germanie, or the poverty o’ the 
old Scotch families, or the young lass changing lier mind. 
IVIaybe if she had been less anxious for silks and lace, and 
inayl)e if he had been less anxious to hae a Sir to his name, 
lie might hae bided at home, and married her, and lived 
happily enough. It’s the way o’ young people never to be 
satisfied. And here is Mr. IMelville going away just when 
everything was ready for his taking back the land that be- 
longed to his own people, and settling down on it as he 
ought.” 

“ Perhaps he will not go — perhaps he is not going, Mrs. 
Bell,” she said, in a despairing kind of way ; for well she 
knew, if he wei-e indeed going what 'was tlie cause. 

Then she looked at her watch. Well, she had still 
nearly half an hour to spare, and she was determined to 
stay till the last minute if it were needful. But there was 
no figure coming along the road, no living thing visible on 
these vacant hillsides, nor a sign of life along the wide 
moorland of the valley. She was grateful for Mrs. Bell’s 
talking; it lessened the overstrain of the suspense somehow 
she had to force herself to listen in a measure. And again 
and ngain she expressed the hope that there must be a 
mistake, that Mr, Melville was not really going away. 

“ It’s not my place to ask,” the old lady said, doubtfully ; 
“ but he had a long talk when he came home yesterday wi’ 
the lad Dalrymple, and I jalouse it was about his being 
able to carry on the school by himsel’. It’s just that vexa- 
tious, my dear young leddy! — and yet it canna be helped. 
I darena say a word. He’s a headstrong man, and he’s to 
be managed only wi’ a good deal o’ skill ; and if he thought 
I was any kind o’ encumbrance, or expected him to do this, 
that, or the other, he would be off in a gliff. But the vexa- 

* Probably this version of the ballad is very imperfect, as it is put 
down here from memory. 


282 


YOLANDE 


tiousness o’t, to be sure ! It was only the day before 
yesterday that I wrote to they lawyers again. I’m no gaiin 
to tell ye, my young leddy, what they said about the price 
o’ Monaglen, for it might get about, and I’m no wanting 
him to ken wliat I paid for it, if I get it. But I found I 
could easy buy it, and have a good nest-egg for iiim besides ; 
besides my own £220 a year or thereabouts ; and sae I 
wrote to they lawyers just asking them in a kind o’ way to 
get me the refusal of the place for a freend o’ mine. And 
then yesterday morning I began and argued wi’ mysel’. I 
coveted tlie place, that’s the truth. And says I, ‘ Kirsty, 
what’s the use o’ being ower-cunning ? If ye want to buy 
Monaglen, tell them. A braw tiling now, if it were to slip 
througli your fingers, and be snappit up by somebody else: 
wadna ye be a disappointed woman a’ the days o’ your 
life ?’ And so, as second thochts are best, I just sat down 
and told them plump and plain that if Monaglen was to be 
got for that, here was a woman that would take it for that, 
and tolled them to make the bargain, and drive a nail into it, 
there and then ; and that a’ the other things — a’ the 
whigmaleeries they invent just to make poor folk pay 
money — could be settled after. And to think o’ him going 
away the now, just when the night’s post, or may be the 
morn’s night post, is almost sure to bring me a telegram — I 
declare it’s too provokin’ ! ” 

“ But perhaps he is not going away,” said Yolande, 
gently. And then she added, suddenly, and with her face 
grown a deadly white : “ Mrs. Bell, that is Mr. Melville 
coming down the hill. I wish to speak a word or two to 
him by himself.” 

‘•Oh, yes, yes; why not?” said Mrs. Bell, cheerfully. 
“ I’m just going indoors to put a bit string round the 
flowers for ye. And there’s a wee bit basket too, ye maun 
lake ; I made few a sweets, and comfits, and such things for 
ye last night, that’ll help to amuse ye on the journey.” 

She did not hear ; she was regarding him *as he ap- 
proached. His features were as pale as her own ; his lips 
were thin and white. When he came to her he stood before 
her with his eyes cast down like one guilty. The pallor of 
liis face was frightful. 

“ I have come because you sent for me,” he said. “ But 
there is nothing you can say to me that I have not said to 
myself.” 

“ Do you think I have come to reproach you ? No. It 


VOLANDE. 


283 


is I who hfive to benr the blame,” she answered, with 
apparent calmness. Then she added : “ 1 — I sent for you 
because I could not go away without a word of good-by.” 

Here she stopped, fearful that h-er self-possession would 
desert her. Her hands Avere tightly clinched, and uncon- 
sciously she was nervously fingering her engagement ring. 

“ I do not see,” she said, speaking in a measured way, 
as if to make sure she should not break down, “ why the 
truth should not be said between us — it is the last time. 
I did not know ; you did not know ; it was all a rtiisfortune ; 
but 1 ought to have known — I ouglit to have guarded my- 
self : it is I who am to blame. Well, if I have to suffer, "it 
is no matter ; it is you that I am sorry for — ” 

“ Yolande, I cannot have you talk like that ! ” he ex- 
claimed. 

“ One moment,” she said — and strangely enough her 
French accent seemed more marked in her speech, perhaps 
because she was not thinking of any accent. “ One 
moment. When I am gone away, do not think that I 
regret having met you and known you. It has been a 
misfortune for you ; for me, no. It has been an honor to 
me that you were my friend, and an education also ; you 
have shown me what this one or that one may be in the 
world ; I had not known it before ; you made me expect 
better things. It was you who showed me what I should 
do. Do not think that I shall forget w'hat I owe you : 
wliatevcr happens, I will try to think of what you would 
expect from me, and that will be my ambition. I wished to 
say this to you before I went away,” said she, and now 
her fingers were trembling somewhat, despite her enforced 
calmness. “ And also that — that, if one can not retrieve 
the past, if one has the misfortune to bring suftering on — ” 

“ Yolande, Yolande,” said he, earnestly, and he looked 
up and looked into her eyes, “ do not speak of it — do not 
think of it any more ? Put it behind you. You are no longer 
a girl ; you are a woman ; you have a woman’s duties before 
you. Whatever is past, let that be over and gone. If any 
one is to blame, it has not been you. Look before you ; forget 
what is behind. Do you know that it is not a light matter 
you have undertaken ? ” 

He was firmer than she was ; he regarded her calmly, 
though still his face was of a ghastly paleness. . 

She hesitated for a moment or two ; then she glanced 
around. 


284 


YOLANDE. 


“ I wish you to — to give me a flower,” she said, “ that 
I may take it with me.” 

“No,” he said at once. “ No. Forget everyth’'"'^ tliat 
has happened here, except the duty you owe to others.” 

“ That I have deserved,” she said, in a low voice. 
“ Good-by.” 

She held out her hand. He took it and held it ; and 
there was a great compassion in his eyes. To her they 
seemed glorified ey^s, the eyes of a saint, full of a sad and 
yearning pity. 

“ Yolande,” said he — and the tones of his voice seemed 
to reach her very heart — “ I liave faith in you. I shall beat 
of you. Be worthy of yourself. Now, God bless you, and 
good-by 1 ” 

''’•Adieit/ adieu!"'' she murmured; and then, white- 
faced and all trembling, but still dry-eyed and erect, she 
got through the house somehow, and out to the front, 
where Mrs. Bell was awaiting her by the side of the dog- 
cart. 

When she had driven away, Mrs. Bell remained for a 
minute or two looking after the departing veliicle — and 
perhaps rather regretfully, too, for she had taken a great 
liking to this bright young English lady who had come into 
these wilds ; but presently she was recalled from her 
reveries or regrets by the calling of Mr. Melville. She 
went into the house at once. 

“ Now, Mrs. Bell,” said he ( and he seemed in an un- 
usual hurry do you think one of the girls could hunt 
out for me tlie waterproof coat tliat has the strap attached to 
it for slinging over the shoulders? And I sup])Ose she 
could pack me some bit of cold meat, or something of the 
kind, and half a loaf, in a little parcel?” 

“Dear me, sir, I will do that mysel’ ; but where are ye 
going, sir, if I may ask?” 

The fact was that it was so unusual for Jack Melville 
to take any precautions of this kind — even when he Avas 
starting for a long day’s fishing on some distant moorland 
Io(;h— that ]\Irs. Bell instanty jumped to the conclusion that 
he was bent on some very desperate excursion. 

“Where am I going?” he said. “Why, across th« 
hills to Kingussie, to catch the night tr 'n to London.” 


YOLANDE. 


286 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

DIB, O STILLES THAL, GRTJS3 ZUM LETZTENMAL ! ” 

The train roared and jingled tlirongh the long blac^- 
night ; and always before her shut but sleepless eyes rost 
vision after vision of that wliich she was leaving forever be- 
hind — her girlhood. So quiet and beautiful, so rich in af- 
fection and kindness, that appeared to her now ; she could 
scarce believe that it was herself slie saw, in those recurrent 
scenes, so glad and joyous and light-liearted. That was all 
over. Already it seemed far away. She beheld herself 
walking with her father along the still valle}'-, in tlie moon- 
light ; or out on the blue waters of the loch, with the sua 
hot on tlie gunwale of the boat ; or away up on the lonely 
hillsides, where tlie neighborhood of the watercourses was 
marked by a wandering blaze of gold — widespread masses 
of the yellow saxifrage ; or seated at the head of the dinner 
table, with her friends laugliing and talking; and all that 
life was grown distant now. She was as one expelled from 
paradise. And sometimes, in spite of herself, in spite of 
all her wise and firm resolves, her heart wmuld utter to itself 
a sort of cry of despair. Why did he refuse her that bit of 
a flower to take away with iier? It was so small a thing. 
And then she thought of the look in his eyes as he regarded 
lier ; of tlie great pity and tenderness shining there ; and 
of the words of courage and hope tliat he had spoken to her 
as she left. W ell slie would show herself wortliy of his faith in 
lier. She would force away from her those idle regrets over a 
too-beautiful past. A new life was opening before her ; she 
was conteTit to accept wdiatever it might bring. Who 
could grudge to her this long, last review of the life she 
was leaving forever ? Farew'oil — farewell! She ^vas not 
even carrying away with her a bit of a leaf or a blossom, to 
awaken memories, in the after-time, of the garden in which 
she had so often stood in the wdiite clear air, with the sun- 
light all around her. :.;Well, it was better so. And perhaps 
in the new life that she was entering she would find such 
<liities and occupations as wmuld effectually prevent the re- 
currence of this long night’s torture — this vis’on-buiiding 


286 


YOLANDE. 


out of the past, this inexplicable yearning, this vain stretch 
ing out of the hands to that she was leaving forever. 

Toward morning she slept a little, but not much ; how 
ever, on the first occasion of her opening her eyes, she found 
that the gray light of the new day was around her. For 
an instant a shock of fear overcame her — a sudden sense of 
helplessness and affright. She was so strangely situateil , 
she was drawing near the great, dread city; she knew not 
what lay before her; and she felt so much alone. Despite 
herself, tears began to trickle down her face, and her lips 
were tremulous. This new day seemed terrible, and she 
was helpless — and alone. 

“ Dear me. Miss,” said Jane, happening to wake up at 
this moment, “ what is the matter ? ” 

“It is nothing,” her young mistress said. “I — I have 
scarcely slept at all these two nights, and I feel rather weak, 
and — and — not very well. It is no matter.” 

But the tears fell faster now, and this sense of weakness 
and helplessness completely overpowered her. She fairly 
broke down. 

“ I will tell you what it is, ” she sobbed, in a kind of 
recklessness of despair. “ It is that I have undertaken to 
do what is beyond me. I am not fit for it. They have 
asked too much of me. It is beyond what I can do. 
What can I do? — when I feel that I should be happy if I 
could only lie down and die, and be the cause of no more 
trouble to any one !” 

The maid was very much startled by these words, though 
she little guessed the cause of them. And indeed her young 
mistress very speedily — and by a force of will that she did 
not suspect herself of possessing — put an end to this half- 
hysterical fit. She drew herself up erect, she dried her 
eyes’ and she told Jane that as soon as they got to the hotel 
she would go to bed for an hour or two and try to get some 
sleep ; for that really this long fit of wakefulness had filled 
her head with all sorts of ridiculous fancies. 

And that was the last sign of weakness. Pale her face 
might be, as she set about the undertaking of this duty; 
but she had steeled her heart. Fortunately, when they got 
to the hotel, and when she had had some breakfast, she was 
able to snatch an hour or two’s sound and refreshing sleep 
m the silence of her own room ; and wlien she re appeared 
even the dull-witted Jane noticed how much better and 
brisker she looked. Hay, there was even a kind of hope- 


YOLANDE, 


287 


fulness and cheerfulness in the way she set about making 
her preparations. And first of all she told Jane fully and 
frankly of the errand on which she had come to London ; 
and this, as it turned out, was a wise thing to do ; for the 
gooil J ane regarded the whole situation, and her probable 
share in the adventure, with a stolid self-sufiiciency which 
was as good as any courage. Oh, she said, she was not afraid 
of such people ! Probably she knew bettor how to manage 
them than a young lady would. They wouldn’t frighten 
her! And she not obscurely hinted that, if there 'was any 
kind of incivility going on she was quite capable of giving 
as good as she got. 

Yolande had resolved, among other things, that, while 
she would implicitly obey Mr. Melville’s instructions about 
making that appeal to her mother entirely unaided and un- 
accompanied, she might also prudently follow her father’s 
advice and get such help as was necessary, with regard to 
preliminary arrangements, from his solicitors, more espe- 
cially as she had met one of those gentlemen two or three 
times, and so far was on friendly terms with him. Accord- 
ingly, one of the first things she did was to get into a cab, 
accompanied by her maid, and drive to the offices of Law- 
rence & Lang, in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She asked for Mr. 
Lang, and by and by was shown into that gentleman’s room. 
He was a tall, elderly person, with white hair, a shrewd, 
thin face, and humorous, good-natured snile. 

“Take a seat, Miss Winterbourne,” said he. “Very 
lucky you came now. • In another ten minutes I should 

have been off to seek you at the Hotel, and 'we 

should have crossed each other.” 

“But how did you know I was at the Hotel! ” she 

said, with a stare of astonishment. 

“ Oh, we law’yers are supposed to know everything,” he 
answered, good-naturedly. “ And I may tell you that 1 
know of the business that has brought you to London, and 
that we shall be most happy to give you all the assistance 
in our power.” 

“ But how can you know ! ” the girl said, bewildered. 
“ It was only the day before yesterday I decided to go, and 
it was only this morning I reached London. Hid my papa 
write to you, then, without telling me !” 

“ My dear young lad}^, if I \vere to answ^er your questions 
you w'ould no longer believe in the omniscience of lawyers,” 
he said, with his grave smile. “ Ho, no ; you must assume 


288 


YOLANDE, 


that we know everything. And let me tell you that the 
step you are taking, though it is a bold one, deserves to be 
successful ; perhaps it will be successful because it is a bold 
one. I hope so. But you must be prepared for a snock. 
Your mother has been ill.” 

“ Ah? ” said Yolande, but no more. She held her hands 
clasped. 

“ I say she has been ill,” said this elderly suave person, 
who seemed to regard the girl with a very kindly interest. 
“ Now she is better. Three weeks ago my clerk found her 
unable to sign the receipt that he usually brings away 
with him ; and I w‘as about to write to your father, when 
I thought I would wait a day or two and see ; and fortu- 
nately she got a little better. However, you must be pre- 
pared to find her looking ill; and — and — well, I was going 
to say she might be incapable of recognizing you ; but I 
forgot. In the meantime we shall be pleased to be of every 
assistance to you in our power ; in fact, we have been in- 
structed to consider you as under our protection. I hope you 
find the Hotel comfortable ! ” 

“ Oh yes — oh yes,” Yolande said, absently ; she was not 
thinking of any hotel ; she was thinking in what way these 
people could be of help to her. 

“ Of course,” said he, “ when you go to see your mother, 
I could send some one with you if you wished it; or I would 
go with you myself, for that matter; but I understand that 
is not considered desirable.” 

“ Oh no, ” said she ; “ I must go alone. I wish to see 
her alone.” 

“ As for your personal safety,” said he, that need not 
alarm you. Your friends may be .anxious about you, no 
doubt ; but the very worst that can happen will be a little 
impertinence. You won’t mind thatl shall have a policeman 
in plain clothes standing by; if - your maid should consider 
it necessary, she can easily summon him to you. She will be 
inside ; he outside; so you have nothing to fear.” 

“ Then you know all how it has been arranged ! ” she ex 
claimed. 

“ Why, yes ; it is our business here to know every- 
thing,” said he, laughing, “ though we ate not allowed 
sometimes to say how we came by the information. Now 
what else can we do for you ? Let me see. If your poor 
mother will go with you, you might wish to take her to 
some quiet seaside place, perhaps, for her health? ” 


YOLANDE. 


289 


“ Oh yes ; I wish to take her away from Londor at once,” 
Tolande said, eagerly. 

“Well, a client of ours has just left some lodgings at 
Wortliing — in fact, we have recommended them on one or 
two occasions, and Ave have been told that they gave sat- 
isfaction. The rooms are clean and nicely furnislied, and 
the landlady is civil and obliging. She is a gentle- 
woman, in short, in reduced circumstances but not over- 
reaching. I think you might safely take the rooms.” 

“ Will you give me the address, if you please ? ” 

He wrote the address on a card and gave it to her. 

“ But do not trouble to write,” said he ; “ we will do 
that for you, and arrange terms.” 

“ But 1 must go down to see the place first,” said she. 
“ I can go there and get back in one day — to-morrow — ■ 
can I not ? ” 

“ But why should you give yourself ^o much trouble ? ” he 
said. 

“ What a daughter can do for her own mother, that is 
not called trouble,” she answered, simply. “Is Worthing 
a large town ? ” 

“ No ; not a large town. It is one of the smaller water- 
ing-places.” 

“ But one could hire there a pony and a pony-chaise ? ” 

“ Undoubtedly.” 

“ And could one take the rooms and hire the pony and 
pony-chaise conditionally ?” 

“ I don’t quite understand you.” 

“ Could one say, ‘Yes, I shall Avant these most likely ; 
but if I telegraph to you to-morrow or next day that I do 
not Avant them, then there is no bargain, and there is nothing 
to pay ? ” 

“ I have no doubt they Avould make that arrangement 
with you. That would be merely reserving the refusal for 
you for a certain number of days.” 

“ Two days at the most,” said Yolande,* Avho seemed to 
ha\m studied this matter — even as she used to study the de- 
tails of her future housekeeping at Allt-nam-Ba Avhen she 
Avas sitting on the deck of the great steamer with the Med 
iterranean Sea around her. 

“ May I presume to ask,” said he, “whether you are suffi- 
ciently supplied with money ? We have no instructions 
from your father ; but Ave shall be pleased if you consider 
us your bankers.” 


290 


YOLANDE. 


“I have only eight or nine pounds,” said she, ‘‘ in 
money ; but also I have three blank checks which my papa 
signed : that is enough, is it not ? ” 

“Well, yes, I should say that was enough,” he re- 
marked, with a perfectly subdued irony. “ But these blaTik 
checks are dangerous things, if you will permit me to say 
so. I would strongly advdse you, my dear Miss Winter- 
bourne, to destroy them, and to send tons for such sums 
as you may want from time to time. That would be much 
tlie safer plan. And if there is any other particular in 
which we can be of the least assistance to you, you will 
please let us know. We can always send some one to you, 
and a telegram from Worthing only costs a shilling. As we 
have received such strict injunctions about looking after 
}'Ou, we must keep up our character as your guardian.” 

“ I thought you said my papa had not sent you any 
instructions,” Yoland exclaimed again. 

“ About the check, my dear young lady,” said he 
l)rom])tly. 

“ Then I wish you to tell me something of those peo])le 
— I wish to know who and what they are.” 

“ [ think Miss Winterbourne,”said he, gravely, “that the 
information would not edify you much.” 

“But I wish to know,” said she ; “ I wish to know the 
sort of people one must expect to find there.” 

“ The facts are simple, then. He is a drunken scoundrel, 
to put the matter shortly. I believe he once in a fairly 
good position — I rather think he was called to the Bar ; but 
lie never practised. Betting on races, and drink, finished 
him between them. Tiien he tried to float a bit by marrying 
the pro])rietress of a public-house — an illiterate woman ; but 
he drank through her money, and the public-house, and 
everylhing. Now they are supposed to let out this house 
in rooms ; but as that would involve trouble, my own im- 
pression is they have no lodgers but your mother, and are 
content to live on the very ample allowance that we are 
instructed to pay her monthly. Well, no doubt they will 
be vei-y angry if you succeed in taking away from them 
their source of 'ncome ; and the man, if he is drunk, may 
be impertinent , but that is all you have to fear. I would 
strongly advise you to go in the evening. Then the 
presence of the policeman in the street will not arouse sus- 
picion ; and if there should be any -trifling disturbance, it 
will be less likely to attract the notice of bystanders. 


YOLANDE. 


291 


Might 1 ask — please forgive mo if I am impertinent’ — he 
snid, “ but I have known all about this sad story from the 
beginning, and I am naturally curious — may I ask whether 
the idea of your going to your mother, alone, and taking 
her away with you, alone, was a suggestion of your 
father’s ? ” 

“ It was not, ” said she, with downcast eyes. “ It was the 
suggestion of a friend whose acquaintanceship — whose 
friendship — we made in the Highlands — a Mr. Melville.” 

“ Ah,” said he, and he glanced at a card that was lying 
before him on the table. “ It is bold — bold,” he added, 
musingly. “ One thing is certain, everything else has failed. 
My dear young lady, I am afraid, however successful you 
may be, your life for some time to come will not be as ha})py 
and cheerful as one could wish for one of your age.” 

“ That I am not particular about, said Yolande ab- 
sently. 

“ However, in a matter of tliis kind, it is not my ])lace 
to advise : I am a servant only. You are going down to 
Worthing to-morrow. I will give you a list of trains there 
and back, to save you the trouble of hunting through a time- 
table. You will be l>ack in the evening. Now do you 
think it desirable that I should get this man whom I mean 
to employ in your service to hang about the neighborhood 
of the house to-morrow, just to get some notion of the 
comings and goings of the peo])le ” 

“ I tliink it would- be most desirable,” Yolande said. 

“Very well; it shall be done. Let me see : this is 
Thursday; to-morrow you go to Worthing. Could you 
call here on Saturday to hear what the man has to say, or 
shall he wait on you at the Hotel ? ” 

“ I would rather call here,” she said. 

“Very well; and what hour would be most conve* 
nient ? ” 

“ Ten — is it too soon ? ” 

“ Not at all,” said he, jotting down a memorandum on 
a diary before him. “Now one thing more. Will you 
oblige me by burning those checks ? I will write to your 
father, and take the responsibility.” 

“ If you think it right I will,” she said, “ as soon as I go 
back to the hotel.” 

“And here” he continued going to a safe and fetching 
out some Bank of England notes, “ is £25 in £5 notes ; it is 
not so serious a matter if one of these should go astray, 


292 


YOLANDE, 


Please put these in your purse, Miss Winterbourne ; niic] 
when you want any further sums you have only to write 
to us,” 

She thanked him, and rose, and bade him good-by. 

“Good-by Miss Winterbourne,” said he, in a very 
friendly way ; “ and please to remember that although, of 
course, all tlie resources of our firm are at your disposal as 
a matter of business, still I hope you may count on us for 
something more than that, if there is any way we can lielp 
you — I mean in a private and personal way. If any such oc- 
casion should arise, please remember that your father and I 
were friends together in Slagpool five and thirty years ago, 
and anything that I can do for his daughter will be a great 
jileasure to me.” 

As she left she thought that London did not seem to bo, 
after all, such a terrible place to be alone in. Here was 
protection, guardianship, friendship, and assistance put all 
around her at the very outset. There were no more qualms 
or sinkings of the heart now. When she got outside it 
suddenly occurred to her that she would like to go away in 
search of the street in which her mother lived, and rec- 
onnoitre the house. Might there not be some chance of her 
coming out ? — the day was fairly fine for London. And 
how strange to see her mother walking before her. She 
fell sure she should recognize her. And then — perhaps — 
what if one were suddenly to discard all preparations ? what 
if she were to be quickly caught, and carried off, aud trans- 
ferred to the safety of the Hotel, before any one could 

interfere ? 

But when she had ordered the cabman to drive to Ox- 
ford Circus, and got into the cab, along with Jane, she 
firmly put away from her all these wild possibilities. This 
undertaking was too serious a matter to be imp(3riied by 
any rashness. She might look at the street, at the house at 
the windows ; but not if her mother were to come out and 
pass her by touching her skirt even, would she declare her- 
self. She was determined to be worthy of the trust that 
had been placed in her. 

At Oxford Circus they dismissed the cab, and walked 
gcme shori distance until they found the place they were in 
search of — a dull, respectable-looking, quiet, misty little 
thoroughfare, 1} ing just back from the continuous roar of 
Oxford Street. Slie passed tlie house once or twice, too, 
knowing it by its number, but there was no sign of life in 


YOLANDE. 


29B 


it. The small, curtained windows showed no one sittinc^ 
there or looking out. She waited; went to distant points, 
and watched ; but save for an occasional butcher’s boy or 
postman the street remained uniformly empty. Then she 
remembered that it was drawing towards the afternoon, and 
that poor Jane was probably starving ; so she called another 
cab, and drove to the hotel. 

IS’ext day was a busy day — after that life of quietude far 
away among the hills. She got to Worthing about twelve, 
and went straight to the lodgings that had been recpm- 
mended by Mr. Lang, which she found in one of the bright 
and cheerful-looking terraces fronting the sea. She was 
much pleased with the rooms, which were on the first floor, 
the sitting-room opening on to a balcony prettily decorated 
with flowers ; and she also took rather a fancy to the little 
old lady herself, who was at first rather anxious and nerv- 
ous, but who grew more friendly under the influence of Yo- 
lande’s calm and patronizing gentleness. Under the con- 
ditions mentioned to Mr. Lang she took the rooms, ana 
gave her name and address and her father’s name and ad- 
dress, adding, with the smallest touch of pride. 

“ Of course you know him by reputation.” 

“ Oil yes, indeed,” somewhat vaguely said this timid, 
pretty little old lady, who was the widow of a clergyman, 
and whose sole and whole notion of politics was that the 
Radicals and other evil-disposed persons of that kind were 
plotting the destruction of the Church of England, which 
to her meant nothing more nor less than the swallowing 
up of the visible universe. “ He is in Parliament, is he 
not ? ” 

Yes,” said Yolande ; “and some people wish he were 
not there, lie is a little too honest and outspoken for 
them.” 

Hextshe went to a livery -stable keeper, and asked 
aliout his terms for the hire of a pony and })ony-caiTiage. 
These terms seemed to her reasonable but they were not; 
for she was judging them by the Inverness standard, where- 
as that standard is abnormally high, for the reason that the 
Inverness livery-stable keepers have demands made on 
them for only two or, at most, three months in the year 
and are quite content, for the other nine months, to lend 
out their large stock of horses for nothing to any of the 
neighboring lairds or farmers who will take tliem and feed 
them. However, the matter was not a serious one. 


294 


YOLANDE. 


The next morning she called at the office of Messrs. 
Lawrence Lang, heard what the man who had been 
posted in tliat little thoroughfare had to say, and arranged 
that she should go alone to the house that evening at eight 
o’clock. She had no longer in her eyes the pretty timidit^i 
and bashfulness of a child ; she bore herself with the de. 
meauor of a woman. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

AN ABDUCTION. 

A FEW minutes before eight on that evening, in the 
thorouglifare- just mentioned, a short, thickset man was 
standing by a lamp-post, either trying to read, or pretending 
to read, an evening newspaper by the dull, yellow light. 
Presently a hansom cab drove up to the corner of the 
street and stopped there, and a taller and younger man got 
out and came along to the lamp-post. 

“ I would go a dozen yards nearer,” said the new- 
comer. 

“ Very well, sir,” said the other. And then he added, 
“ The master of the house has just gone out sir.” 

“ So much the better,” said the younger man, carelessly. 
“ There will be the less bother — probably none at all. But 
you keep a little bit nearer after the young lady has gone in- 
to the house.” 

“ Very well, sir.” 

The new-comer apparently did not consider that any 
great vigilance or surveillance would be necessary, but all 
the same, while he still left the hansom at the corner of the 
street, he walked along a few yards further (glancing in 
passing at the windows of one of the houses), until he came 
to a narrow entry leading down into a courtyard, and there 
a step or two into the gloom of the little passage effectually 
hid liim from sight. 

Punctually at eight o’clock a four-wdieeled cab appeared 
and drew up, and Yolande got out, followed by her maid. 
Without delay or hesitation she crossed the pavement and 
knocked at the door. A girl of about fifteen opened it. 


YOLAA^DE. 


295 


" Is Mrs. Winterbourne within ?” said Yolandc, calmly. 

The girl eyed her doubtfully. “ Y — yes, miss.” 

“ I wish to see her, if you please.” 

“ Y — yes, miss ; if you wait for a moment I’ll go and 
tell missis.” 

“ No,” said Yolande, promptly and she passed into the 
lobby without further ado — “ no, I will not trouble your 
mistr3ss. Please show me where I shall find Mrs. Winter- 
bourne; that is enough.” 

Now the girl looked frightened, for the two strangers 
were inside, and she glanced behind her to see whether her 
mistress were not coming to her relief. Moreover, this tall 
young lady had an imperious way with her ? 

“ Which is her room ? ” 

“ T — that is her sitting-room,” stammered the girl. In- 
deed, they were all standing just outside the door of it. 

“ Thank you,” she said, and she put her hand on the 
handle of the door. “ Jane, wait for me.” The next moment 
she was inside the room, and the door shut behind her. 

A spasm of fear caught her and struck her motionless. 
Some one sat there — some one in a chair — idly looking into 
the fire, a newspaper flung aside. And what horror might 
not have to be encountered now ! She had been warned ; 
she had prepared herself ; but still — 

Then the next moment a great flood of pity and joy and 
gratitude filled her heart ; for the face that was turned to 
her — that regarded her with a mild surprise — though it was 
emaciated and pallid, was not unlovable; and the eyes 
were large and strange and melancholy. This poor lady 
rose, and with a gentle courtesy regarded her visitor, and 
said, 

“ I beg your pardon ; I did not hear you come into the 
room.” 

What a strange voice — hollow and distant ; and it was 
clear that she was looking at this new-comer only with a 
vague, half-pleased curiosity, not with any natural wonder 
at such an intrusion. Yolande could not speak. She for- 
got all that she had meant to say. Her heart seemed to be 
choking her. 

“ Mother,” she managed to say at length, “ you do not 
know, then, that I am your daughter.” 

“ My Yolande I ” she said — and she retreated a step, as 
if in fear. “ You are not my Yolande — you ! ” 

She regarded her apparently with some strange kind of 


206 


YOLANDE. 


dread — as if she were an apparitioii. There was no wonder, 
or joy, or sudden impulse of affection. 

“You — you cannot be my Yolande — my daughter !” 

“ But indeed I am, mother,” said the girl, with the tears 
running down her face in spite of herself. “ Ah ! it is cruel 
that I should come to you as a stranger — that you should 
have no word of kindness for me. Butnc matter. We 
shall soon make up for all these years. Mother, I have come 
to take you away. You must no longer be here alone. You 
will come with me, will you not ! ” 

The pale, emaciated, hollow-voiced woman came neai-er 
now, and took Yolande’s hand and, regarded her with a 
kind of vague, pleased curiosity and kindness. 

“ And you are really my Yolande, then ? How tall you 
are ! and beautiful too — like an angel. When I have thought 
of you it was not like tliis. What beautiful beautiful hair ! 
and so straight you have grown, and tall ! So they have 
sent you to me at last. But it is too late now — too late.” 

“ No, no, mother it is not too late. You will come 
away with me, will you not — now — at once? ” 

The other shook her head sadly ; and yet it was ob- 
vious that she was taking more and more interest in her 
daugliter — regarding her from top to toe, admiring her 
dress even, and all the time holding her Ijand. 

“ Oh no, I cannot go away witli you,” she said. “ It is 
not for you to be hampered with one like mo. I am con- 
tent. I am at peace here. I am quite happy here. You 
are young, rich, beautiful ; you will have a beautiful life ; 
everything beautiful round you. It is so strange to look at 
you ! And wlm sent you ? Tiie lawyers, I suppose. 
What do they want now? Why do they not let mo 
alone ?” 

She let the girl’s hand fall, and turned away dejectedly, 
and sank down into the easy-chair again with a sigh. But 
Yolande was mistress of herself now. She went forward, 
put her hand upon her mother’s shoulder, and said, firmly : 

“ Mother, I will not allow you to remain here. It is not 
a fit place for you. I have come to take you away myself ; 
the lawyers have not sent me ; they want nothing. Dear 
mother, do make up your mind to come away with me — ■ 
now ! ” 

Her entreaty was urgent, for she could hear distinctly 
that there were some “ high words ” being bandied in the 


vOLAA'jys. 297 

lobby, and she wished to get Iier mother away without any 
unseemly squabble. 

“ Do, mother ! Everything is ready. You and I will go 
away together to Worthing, and the sea air andtlie country 
drives will soon make you well again. I have got everything 
prepared for you — })retty rooms fronting the sea ; and a 
balcony where you can sit and read ; and I have a pony- 
carriage to take you for drives through the lanes. Ah I 
imw, to tliink it is your own daughter who is asking you 1 
You cannot refuse! You cannot refuse 1” 

She had risen again and taken Yolaiide’s hand, but her 
look was hesitating, and bewildered. 

“ They will be angry,” said she, timidly ; for now the 
dissension without was clearly audible. 

“ Who, then ? ” said Tolande, proudly. “ You will leave 
them to me, mother; I am not afraid. Ah if you saw how 
much prettier the rooius are at Worthing! — -yes; and no 
longer you will have to sit alone by yourself in tlie evening. 
Come, mother ! ” 

At this moment the door opened, aud a short, stout, red- 
faced black-liaired woman made her appearance. It was 
clear that the altercation with Jane had not improved her 
tem|)er. 

“ I beg your pardon young lady,” said she, with studied 
deference, “ but I want to know what this means.” 

Yolande turned with Hashing eyes. 

“ Leave the room ! ” 

For a second tlie woman was cowed by her manner ; but 
the next moment she had bridled up again. 

“ Leave the room, indeed ! Leave tlie room — in my own 
house ! Not until I’m paid. And what’s more, the poor 
dear lady isn’t going to be taken away against her will. 
She knows who her friends are. She knows whohive 
looked after her and nursed her. She sha’n’t be forced 
away fj*om the house against her will, I warrant you.” 

“ Leave the room this instant, or I will send for a police- 
nan!” Yolande said ; and she had drawn herself ii to 
iier full height, for her mother, poor creature, was timidly 
shrinking behind her. 

“ A policeman ! Hoity-toity ! ” said the other, with her 
little black eyes sparkling. “You’d better have no police- 
man in here. It’s not them that are robbing a poor woman 
that should call for a policeman. But you haven’t taken 
her with you yet, and what’s more, she sha’n’t move an inch 
out of this house until every fartliing that’s owiiiiz us is 


298 


YOLANDE. 


paid — that she sha’n’t. We’re not going to be robbed so 
long as there’s the law. Not till every farthing is paid, I 
warrant you ! — so perhaps you’ll let the poor dear lady 
alone, and leave her in the care of them that she knows to 
be her friends. A policeman, indeed ! Not one step shall 
she budge until every farthing of her debt is paid.” 

Now for the moment Yolande was completely discom 
certed. It was a point she had not foreseen ; it was a point, 
therefore, on which she had asked no counsel. She had 
been assured by Mr. Lang that she had nothing to fear in 
talking away her mother from this house — that she was act- 
ing strictly within her legal rights. But how about this 
question of debt ? Could they really detain her ? Out- 
wardly, however, she showed no symptom of this sudden 
doubt. She said to the woman, with perfect calmness, — 

“ Your impertinence will be of little use to you. My 
mother is going with me ; I am her guardian. If you in- 
terfere with me, it will be at your own peril. If my mother 
owes you anything, it will be paid.” 

“ How am I to know that’? Here she is, and here she 
shall remain until every farthing is paid. We are not go- 
ing to be robbed in that way.” 

“I tell you that whatever is owing to you will be paid,” 
said Yolande. “You need not pretend that you have any 
fear of being robbed ; you know you will be paid. And 
now I wish you to tell me where my mother’s things are. 
Which is her bedroom ? ” 

“ I’ll show you whether you can ride the high horse over 
me I” said the woman, with her eyes glittering with anger. 
“ I’ll go and fetch my husband, that I will”*' And the next 
second she had left the room and the house too, running 
out into the night bareheaded. 

“Now, mother,” said Yolande, quickly, “ now is our 
chance ! Where are your things ? Oh, you must not 
think of packing anything ; we will send for what you 
want to-morrow. But do you really owe these j^eople any- 
thing ? ” 

“I don’t know,” said her mother, who seemed to have 
been terrified by this threat on the part of the woman. 

“ Well, then, where is your hat? — where is your shaw \ 
Where is your room ? ” 

Almost mechanically she opened the folding-doors that 
formed one side of the apartment, disclosing ;Wyond a 
bedroom. Yoland preceded her, picking up the things she 
wanted and helped her to put them on. 


YOLANDE. 


291 ) 


“ Come, now, mother ; we will get away before they 
come back. Oh you need not be afraid. Ev'-erytliing is ar^ 
ranged for you. There is a cab waiting for us outside.” 

“ Who is in it ? ” said the mother, drawing back with a 
gesture of fear. 

“ Wliy, no one at all,” said Yolande, cheerfully. “ But 
my maid is just outside, in the passage. Come along, 
mother.” 

“ Where are we going ? ” 

“ To the hotel wliere I am staying, to be sure. Every- 
thing is arranged for you ; we are to have supper together 
— you and I — all by ourselves. Will that please you, 
mother ? ” 

‘‘ VYait for a moment, then.” 

She went back into the bedroom, and almost instantly 
ro-appeared, glancing at Yolande with a quick, furtive look 
that the girl did not understand. She understood after. 

“ Come then.” 

She took her mother by the hand and led her as if she 
was a child. In the lobby they encountered Jane, and 
Jane was angry. 

“ Another minute, miss, and I would have turned her 
out by the shoulders,” she said, savagely. 

“ Oh, it is all right,” said Yolande, briskly. “ Every- 
thing is quite right. Open the door Jane there’s a good 
girl.” 

They had got out from the house, and were indeed 
crossing the pavement, when the landlady again made her 
appearance, coming hurriedly up in the company of a man 
who looked like (what he was) a butler out of employment, 
and who was obviously drunk. He began to hector and 
bully. He interposed himself between them and the cab. 

“ You ain’t going away like this. You ain’t going to 
rob poor people like this ! You come back into the house 
until we settle this alfair.” 

Now Yolande’s only aim was to get clear of the man 
and to get her mother put into the cab ; but he stood in front 
of her, whichever way she made the attempt ; and at last 
he put his hands on her arm to force her back to the 
house. It was an unfortunate thing for him that he did so. 
Tl-.ere was a sudden crash ; the man reeled back, staggered, 
and then fell like a log on the pavement ; and Yolande, 
bevvdldered by the instantaneous nature of the whole occur- 
ence, only knew that something like a black shadow bad 


300 


YOLAArDE. 


gone swiftly by. All this appeared to have happened in a 
moment, and in that same moment here was the policemiin 
in plain clothes, whom she knew by sight. 

“ What a shame to strike the poor man ! ” said he to 
the landlady, who was on her knees shrieking by the side 
of her husband. “ But he ain’t much hurt, mum. I’ll help 
him indoors, mum. I’m a constable, I am. I wish I knew 
who done that ; I’d have the law again him.” 

As he uttered these words of consolation he regarded 
the prostrate man with perfect equanimity, and a glance 
over his shoulder informed him that in the confusion Yo- 
lande, and her mother, and the maid, had got into the cab 
and driven off. Then he proceeded to raise the stupefied 
ex-butler, who certainly had received a “ facer,” but who 
presently came to himself as near as the fumes of rum 
would allow. Nay, he helped, or rather steadied, the man 
into the house, and assured the excited landlady that the 
law would find out who had committed this outrage ; but 
he refused the offer of a glass of something on the plea that 
he was on duty. Then he took down the number of the 
house in his note-book, and left. 

As he walked along the street he was suddenly accosted 
by the tall, broad-shouldered young man who had disap- 
peared into the narrow entry. 

“ Why weren’t you up in time ! ” said the latter, angrily. 

Lor, sir, you was so quick ! ” 

“ Is that drunken idiot hurt ?” 

“ Well, sir, he may ’ave a' black eye in the morning — 
maybe a pair on ’em. But ’tain’tno matter. He’ll think he 
run agin a lam}>post. He’s as drunk as drunk.” 

“ What was the row about? I couldn’t hear a word.” 

“ Why, sir, they said as the lady owed them something.” 

“ Oh, that was the dodge. However, it’s all settled now 
— very well settled. Let me see, I suppose Lawrence & Lang 
j)ay you ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Well, you know, I don’t think you did your best. 
You weren’t sharp enough. When you saw that drunken 
brute seize hold of the young lady’s arm you should have 
been there — on the spot — on the instant — ” 

“ Lor, sir, you was so quick ! And the man went over 
like a ninepin.” 

“ Well, the affair is satisfactory as it stands,” said the 
younger and taller man, “ and I am well satisfied, and so J 


VULAiVDE 


;'iO] 


suppose you don’t mind my adding a sovereign to wliat 
Lawrence & Lang will give you.” 

“ Thank ye, sir,” said the man, touching his cap. 

“ Here you are then. Good-night.” 

“ Good-night, sir.” 

Then the younger man walked on to the corner of the 
street, jumped into tlie hansom that was still awaiting him 
there, called through the trap-door to the driver, “ijnited 
Universities, corner of Suffolk Street, Pall Mall,” and su 
was driven off. 

That same night Yolande wrote the following letter to 
her father : — 

“ My dear Papa, — I wish tliat I might write this letter 
in Frencii, for my heart is so full ; hut I know you would not 
like it, so I will do my best in English. It is all over and 
settled ; my mother is with me — in this room where I am 
writing — reading a little, but not so agitated by the events 
of the day, or rather this evening, that one might expect. 
It is I who am agitated: please forgive my errors. But, oh, 
it was the saddest thing ever seen in the world, for a 
mother to be standing ojtposite her own daughter, and not 
caring for her — not knowing her. We were two strangers. 
But my heart was glad. I had had the appreliension that 
I should have to overcome emotions: that it miglit be onlv 
duty that would keep me by her side; but no, no. When I 
saw her face, and her gentle eyes, I said to myself how easy 
would be the task of loving lier as a daughter should. 
Dear Paj^a, she is so ill ; and also she seems so far away 
and absorbed and sad. She is only a little intei-ested in 
me— -only a little. But yet I think she is ])leased. I have 
shown her what wardrobe I have with me, and that ))leased 
her a little ; but it is I who will have to be the guardian, and 
buy things for her. She was pleased with my dressing-bag, 
and to-morrow I am going to buy her the most beautiful one 
I can get in London. Mr. Lang asked me to burn the three 
blank checks you gave me, and I did that, and I am to, have 
money from him ; but after the dressing-bag I hope there 
will not be much expense ; for we shall be living quietly at 
Worthing; and I know that when you gave Mrs. Graliam 
the expensive piece of broderie at Cairo you will not grudge 
me tliat I give my motlier a beautiful dressing-bag 

It has all happened just as Mr. Melville planned. How 
he could have foreseen so mucli I cannot tell ; perhaps it ifl 


802 


yOLAA^£)Ji. 


that I followed to his instructions as nearly as I could. 
The people were insolent somewhat; but to me, not to mji 
mother ; so that is right. But at the end, when we vv^ere 
coming away, the man seized me, and then I was frightened 
— be wished me to go back into the house — and then, I know 
not how, he was struck and fell ; perhaps by the policeman 
it was, but I did not stay to look. I liurried my mother 
into the cab, and we are here safe and sound. Poor Jane 
is so angry. She demands to go back to-morrow to recover 
some things of ray mother’s and also that she wants to “ have 
it out ” with the woman because of the way she spoke to me ; 
but this I will not allow. I shall write to Messrs. Law- 
rence & Lang to-night to send some one ; also to pay what 
ever is owing. 

“ She has just come over and stroked my hair, and gone 
back to her chair again ; I think she is a little more affec- 
tionate to me now ; and oh ! I am so anxious to get away 
to tlie sea-air, that it may wake her out of this lethargy. 
I know it will, I am sure of it. We have got such cheer- 
ful rooms ! The address, dear papa, is Arbutus V'illa, 

Terrace, Worthing ; please give it to Duncan, and tell 

him to send me each week a brace of grouse, a brace of 
black game, one or two hares, and any odd ptarmigan or 
snipe you may get; then I will know that they are good. 
To-niglit we had supper together ; alas ! she ate scarcely 
anything. I asked if she would have a little wine — no ; she 
seemed to have a horror of it; even to be frightened. She 
came round the table and took me by the hand, and begged 
of me to be always with her. I said, was not that what 
I had come for? She said, with such a strange voice, “ I 
need help — I need help” ; and I answered that now every- 
thing was to be reversed, and that I was to be the mother to 
her, and to take charge of her. Then she cried a little; but 
I think she was pleased with me ; and when I said that I 
wanted to write a letter, after we had finished, she said she 
would read until I had written the letter, and then she 
wished to hear where I had been, and how I had lived in 
the Highlands. Perhaps in time I will persuade her to be 
affectionate to me ; on my part it will not be difficult that I 
should soon love her, for she is gentle, and to regard her 
fills one’s heart with pity. I had great terror that it might 
not be so. 

“ To-morrow, if it is possible, I think we will get away 
to Worthing. I am anxious to begin my guardianship. 


YOLANDE, 


303 


Perhaps by a middle day train, if I have to buy some things 
for my mother. Or why not there, we shall have j)lenty of 
time? I wish to see her away from the town — in clear, 
brisk air ; then we shall have the long, quiet, beautiful days 
to become acquainted with each other. It is so strange, is 
it not, a mother and daughter becoming acquainted with 
each other ? But, since I am her guardian, I must not let 
her sit up too late ; and so good-night, dear, dear papa, from 
your affectionate daughter, “ Yolande.” 

That was naturally the end of the letter, and yet she held 
It open before her for some time in hesitation. And then 
she took her pen and added : “I cannot tell you how glad 
it would make me if you had time to write a long letter to 
me about Allt-nam-Ba, and all the people there ; for one 
cannot help looking back to the place where one has been 
happy.’* 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A BEGINNING. 

Despite all her hurrying, however, Yolande did not 
manage to get away from London on the day following; it 
was not until early the next morning that she and her mother 
and the maid found themselves finally in the train, and the 
great city left behind for good. The weather was brilliant 
and shining around them ; and the autumn-tinted woods 
were glorious in color. To these, or any other passing ob- 
ject, Yolande, in her capacity of guardian, drew cheerful at- 
tention, treating the journey, indeed, as a very ordinary 
every-day affair ; but the sad-eyed mother seemed hardly 
capable of regarding anything but her daughter, and tlnit 
sometimes with a little bit of stealthy crying. 

“ Ah,” she said, in those strangely hollow tones, “ it is 
kind of you to come and let me see you for a little while.” 

“ A little while ? What little while, then ? ” said Yo- 
lande, with a stare.” 

“ Until I go back.” 

“ Until you go back where, motlier ? ” 


304 


YOLANDE. 


Anywhere — away from you,” said the mother, regard- 
ing the girl with an affectionate and yet wistful look. “ It 
was in a dream that I came away from the house with you. 
You seemed calling me in a dream. But now I am begin- 
ning to wake. At the station there were two ladies ; I saw 
them looking at us ; and I knew what they were thinking. 
They were wondering to see a beautiful young life like yours 
linked to a life like mine ; and they were right. I could see 
it in their eyes.” 

“ They would have been better employed in minding 
their own business,” said Yolande, angrily. 

“No; they were right,” said her mother, calmly; and 
then she added, with a curious sort of smile : ” But I am 
going to be with you for a little while. I am not going 
away yet. I want to learn all about you, and understand 
you ; then I shall know what to think when I hear of vou 
afterward. You will have a happy life ; I shall hear of you 
perhaps, and be proud and glad ; I shall think of you always 
as young and happy and beautiful ; and when you go back 
to your friends — ” 

“ Dear mother, ” said Yolande I wish you would not 
talk nonsense. When I go back to my friends ! I am not 
going back to any friends until you go back with me : do 
you understand that ? ” 

“ I ?” said she ; and for a second there was a look of 
fright on her face. Then she shook her head sadly. “ No, 
no. My life is wrecked and done for ; yours is all before you 
— without a cloud, without a shadow. As for me, I am con- 
tent. I will stay with you a little while, and get to know 
you ; then I will go away. How could I live if I knew that 
I was the shadow on your life ? ” 

“Well, yes, mother, you have got a good deal to learn 
about me,” said Yolande, serenely. “ It is very clear that 
you don’t know what a temper I have, or you would not be 
so anxiaus to provoke me to anger. But please remem- 
ber that it isn’t wliat you want, or what you intend to do 
— it is what I may be disposed to allow you to do. I have 
beeii'spoiled all my life ; that is one thing you will have to 
learn about me. I always have my own way. You will 
find that out very soon ; and then you will give over mak- 
ing foolish plans ; or thinking that it is for you to decide. 
Do you think I have stolen you away, and carried you into 
slavery, to let you do as you please ? Not at all ; it is far 
from that. As soon as we get to Worthing I am going to 


YOLANDE. 305 

get a prettier bonnet than that — I know the shop pei-fectly ; 
I saw it the other day. But do you tliink I will permit you 
to choose the color ? No, not at all — not at all. And as 
for your going away, or going back, or going anywhere — oh 
we will see about that, I assure you.” 

For the time being, at all events, the mother did not 
protest. She seemed more and more fascinated by the so- 
ciety of her daughter ; and appeared quite absorbed iii re- 
garding the bright young fresli face, and in listening with a 
strange curiosity for tlie slight traces of a foreign accent 
tiiat remained in Yolande’s talking. As for the girl herself 
she bore herself in the most matter of fact way. She would 
have no sentiment interfere. And always it was assumed 
that her mother was merely an invalid whom the sea air 
would restore to health ; not a word was said as to the cause 
of her present condition. 

Worthing looked bright and cheerful on this breezy fore- 
noon. The wind-swept yellow-gray sea was struck a gleam- 
ing silver here or there with Hoods of sunlight ; the morning 
promenaders had not yet gone in to lunch ; a band was play- 
ing at the end of the pier. When they got to the rooms, 
they found that every jireparation had been made to receive 
them ; and in the bay-window they discovered a large teles- 
cope which the little old lady said she had borrowed from a 
neighbor whose rooms were unlet. Yolande managed ever- 
thing — Jane being a helpless kind of creature — and the 
mother submitted occasionally with a touch of amusement 
appearing in her manner. But usually she was rather sad, 
and her eyes had an absent look in them. 

“ Now let me see,” said Yolande, briskly, as they sat at 
lunch (Jane waiting on them). “ There is really so much to 
be done that 1 don’t known where we should begin. Oh yes, 
I do. First we will walk along to the sliops and buy your 
bonnet. Then to a chemist’s for some scent for your dress- 
in 2 ’-bags. Then we must get glass dishes for flowers for the 
t,a,ble — one round one for the middle, and two semicircles. 
Then when we come back the pony-carriage must be wait- 
ing for us ; and we we will give you a few minutes to put 
on the bonnet, dear mother ; and then we will go away for 
a drive into the country. Perhaps we shall get some wild 
flowers ; if not then we will buy some when we comeback — ” 
Why should you give yourself so much trouble, Yo 
Iftude ? ” her mother said. 


306 


YOLAiVDE. 


“ TroTil)le ? It is no trouble. It is an amusement — an 
occupation. Without an occupation how can one live ? 

“ Ah, you are so full of life — so full of life,” the mother 
said, regarding her wistfully. 

“ Oh, I assure you,” said Yolande, blithely “ that not 
many know what can be made of wild flowers in a room — if 
you have plenty of them. Not all mixed ; but here one 
mass of color; and there another. Imagine, now that we 
were thirty-three miles from Inverness ; how could one get 
flowers except by going up the hill-side and collecting them ? 
That was an occupation that had a little trouble, to be sure ! 
— it was harder work than going to buy a bonnet ! But 
sometimes we were not quite dependent on the wild flowers; 
there was a dear good woman living a few miles away — ah, 
she was a good friend to me ! — who used to send me from her 
garden far more than was right. And every time that I 
passed, another handful of flowers ; more than that, perhaps 
some fresh vegetables all nicely packed up ; perhaps a little 
basket of new-laid eggs ; perhaps a pair of ducklings — oh, 
such kindness as was quite ridiculous from a stranger. And 
then when I come away, she goes to the lodge, and takes 
one of the girls with her, to see that all is right-; and no 
question of trouble or inconvenience ; you would think it 
was you who were making the obligation and giving kind- 
ness, not taking it. I must write to her when I have time. 
But I hope soon to hear how they are all going on up there 
in the Highlands.” 

“ Dear Yolande,” said the mother. “ why should you 
occupy yourself about me ? Do your writing ; I am content 
to sit in the same room. Indeed, I would rather listen to 
you talking about the Highlands than go out to get the bon- 
net, or anything else.” 

“Why do I occupy myself about you?” said Yolande. , 
“Because I have brought you here to make you well ; that 
is why. And you must be as much as possible out-of-doors, 
especially on such a day as this, when the air is from the 
sea. Ah, we shall soon make you forget the London din- 
giness and the smoke. And you would rather not go for a 
drive, perhaps, when it is I who am going to drive you ? ” 

Indeed, she took the mastership into her own hand ; and 
perhaps that was a fortunate necessity ; for it prevented 
her thinking over certain things that had happened to her- 
self. Wise, grave-eyed, thoughtful, and prudent, there was 
now little left m her manner or speech of the petulant and 


YOLANDE. 


307 


light-hearted Yolande of otlier days ; and yes she was pleased 
to see that lier mother was taking more and more interest 
in her : and perhaps sometimes — though she strove to for- 
get the past altogether and only to keep’ herself busily oc- 
cupied witli the present — there was some vague and subtle 
sense of self-approval. Or was it self-a])proval ? Was it 
not rather some dim kind of belief that if he who had ap* 
pealed to her, if ho wlio had said that he had faith in her, 
could now see her, he would say that she was doing well V 
But she tried to put these remembrances away. 

An odd thing happened when they were out. They had 
gone to the shop were Yolande had seen the bonnets ; and 
she was so satisfied with the one that she chose that she 
made her mother |)ut it on then and there, and asked the 
milliner to send the other home. Then they went outside 
again ; and not far off was a chemist’s shop. 

“ Now,” said Yolande, “ we will go and choose two 
scents for the bottles in the dressing-bags. One shall be 
white rose ; and the other ? What other ? ” 

“ Whichever you like best, Yolande,” said her mother, 
submissively, her daugliter had become so completely her 
guide and guardian. 

“ But it is for your di-essing-bag mother, not mine,” said 
Yolande. “ You must choose. You must come into the 
shop and choose.” 

“ Very well, then.” 

They walked to the shop ; and Yolande glanced for a 
minute at the window, and then went inside. But the 
moment they had got within the door — parhaps it was the 
odor of the place that had recalled her to herself — the 
mother shrank back with a strange look of fear on her face. 

Yolande,” she said, in a low, hurried voice, “ I will 
wait for ) ou outside.” 

“ But which is to be the other scent mother ? ” 

“1 will wait for you outside,” said she with her hand 
touching her daugliter’s arm. “ I will wait for you out- 
side.” 

Then Yolande seemed to comprehend what that dazed 
look of fear meant ; and she. was so startled that, even after 
her mother had left, she could scarce summon back enough 
self-posession to tell the shopman what she wanted. There- 
after she never asked her mother to go near a chemist’s 
•hop. 

That same afternoon they went for a drive along some 


308 


YOLANDE. 


of the inland country lanes ; and as they soon found that 
the stolid, fat, and placid pony could safely be left under 
the charge of Jane, tliey got out whenever they liad a mind, 
to look at an old church, or to explore banks and liedgerows 
in search of wild dowers. Now this idle strolling, with 
occasional scrambling across ditc]ie>^, was light enoiigli vrork 
for one who was accustomed to climb the hills of Allt-iiam-Ba; 
but no doubt it was fatiguing enough to this poor woman, 
M'ho, nevertheless, did her best to prove herself a cheerful 
companion. But it was on this fatigue that Yolande reek- 
one^. That was why she wanted her mother' to be out all 
day in the sea air and the country air. What she was aim- 
ing at was a certainty of sleep for this invalid of whom she 
was in charge. And so she cheered her on to further 
exertion; and ])retended an eagerness in this seai*ch for 
wild flowers which was not very real (forever, in tlie midst 
of it, some stray plants here or thei-e would remin<.l her 
of a herbarium far away, and of other days and other 
scenes), until at last she thought they had both done their 
duty, and so they got into the little carriage again and drove 
back to Worthing. 

That evening at dinner she amused her mother with a 
long and minute account of the voyage to Egy])t, and of 
the friends who had gone with them, and of the life on 
board the dahabeeyah. The mother seemed peculiarly in- 
terested about jMr. Leslie, and asked many questions about 
him ; and Yolande told her frankly how pleasant and 
agreeable a youfig fellow he was, and how well he and his 
sister seemed to understand each other, and so forth. She 
bet i-ayed no embarrassment in expressing her liking for 
him ; although, in truth, she spoke in pretty much the same 
terms of Colonel Graham.” 

“Mr. Leslie was not married, then.'^” 

“ Oh, no.” 

“ It was rather a dangerons position for two young peo- 
})le,” the mother said, with a gentle smile. “ It is a won- 
der you are not wearing a ring iiow.” 

“ What ring? ” Yolande said, with a quick flush of 
color. 

“ An engagement ring.” 

In fact, the girl was not wearing her engagement ring. 
On coming to London slie had taken it old' and put it away; 
other duties claimed her now— that was what she said to 


YOLANDE. 809 

hergelf. Ant^ now she was content thatlier mother sliould 
remain in ignorance of tlnat portion of her past story. 

“ J have other things to attend to,” slie said, briefly; 
and the subject was not continued. 

That day passed very successfully. The mother had 
shown not the slightest symptom of any craving for eithet 
stimulant or narcotic ; nor any growing depression in con- 
sequence of being deprived of these — though Jack Mel- 
ville had warned Yolande that both were probable. No; 
the languor from which she suffered appeared to be merely 
the languor of ill health ; and, so far from becoming more 
depressed, she had become rather more cheerful, especially 
when they were wandering along the lanes in search of 
wild flowers. Moreover, when she went to bed (she and 
Yolande occupied a large double-bedded room) she very 
speedily fell into a sound, quiet sleep. Yolande lay awake 
watching her, but everything seemed right ; and so by-and- 
by the girl’s mind begaii to wander away to distant scenes 
and to pictures that she had been trying to banish from 
her eyes. 

And if sometimes in this hushed room she cried silently 
to herself, and hid her face in the pillow so that no sob 
should awaken the sleeping mother, well, perhaps that was 
only a natural reaction. The strain of all that forced 
cheerfulness had been terrible. Once or twice during the 
evening she had had to speak of the Highlands ; and the 
effort on such occasions to shut out certain recollections 
and vain regrets and self-abasements was of itself a hard 
thing. And now that the strain was over, her imagination 
ran riot ; all the old life up there, with its wonder and de- 
light and its unknown pitfalls, came back to her ; and all 
through it she seemed to hear a sad refrain — a couple of 
lines from on 3 of Mrs, Bell’s ballads — that she could not 
get out of her head. 

Quoth he, ‘ My bonnie leddy, were ye sweet Jeanie Graham 
‘ Indeed, guid sir, but ye’ve guessed my very name.’ ” 

They could not apply to her; but somehow there was sor 
row in them ; and a meeting after many years; and the 
tragedy of two changed lives. How could they apply to 
her ? If there was any one of whom she was thinking it 
ought to have been he to whom she had plighted her troth. 
She had put aside her engagement ring for a season ; but 


BIO 


YOLANDE. 


she was not thereby absolved from lier promise. And yet 
it was not cf him she was thinking; it was of some one 
she saw only vaguely, but gray-haired and after inany 
years, coming back to a wrecked existence ; and lier heart, 
that had a great yearning and pity and love in it, knew 
that it could not help, and what was there but w'oman’s 
tears and a life-long regret? That was a sad night. It 
was not the mother, it was the daughter, who passed the 
long sleepless hours in suffering. But with the morning 
Yolande had pulled herself together again. She was only 
a little pale — that was all. She was as cheerful, as brave, 
as high-spirited as ever. When did the band play ? — ^they 
wmuld walk out on the pier. But even Jane could see that 
this was not the Yolande who had lived at Alll-nam-Ba 
with a kind of sunlight always on her face ; and she 
wondered. 

Not that day but the next came the anxiously expected 
news from the Ilighlands. 

“ My Darling Yolande, — Your letter has given me 
inexpressible relief. I was so loath to see you go. Above 
all, it seemed so cruel that you should go alone, and I re- 
main here. But probably Mr. Melville was right ; perhaps 
it may all turn out for the best ; but it will be a long time 
before any one can say so ; and as I think of you in the mean- 
time, it is with no great sense of satisfaction that I am con- 
scious that I can do nothing to help you. But I rejoice 
that so far you have had no serious trouble; perhaps the 
■worst is over; if that loere so, then there might be a recom- 
pense to you for what you must be undergoing. It would 
be strange indeed if thi-s should succeed after so many fail- 
ures. It would make a great difference to all our lives ; 
sometimes I begin to think it possible, and then recollec- 
tions of the past prove too strong. Lot me know your 
opinion. Tell me everything. Even after all these years, 
sometimes I begin to hope and to think of our having a 
home and a household after all. 

“ There is but little news to send you. At the moment 
I am quite alone. Mr. Shorthands has changed all his 
plans, and has gone south for a few days, finding that he 
can come back and remain with me until the loth of Octo- 
ber. Then you must tell me what you would have me do. 
Perhaps you will know better by that time. If you think 
the experiment hopeless, I trust you will have the honesty 


YO LANDS. 811 

to say so ; then I will take you for a run abroad somewhere 
af-.er your long waiting and nursing. 

“ The Master is in Inverness, I hear ; probably it is busi- 
ness that detains him : otherwise I should have been glad of 
nis company on the hill, now that Shortlands is away. But 
the shooting has lost all interest for me. When I come back 
in the evening there is no one standing at the door, and no 
one to sit at the head of the dinner table. I shall be glad 
when the 15th of October conies; and then, if there is no 
prospect of your present undertaking proving successful, you 
and I will preen our feathers for the South. If they are go- 
ing to bury you alive in these wilds subsequently, you and I 
must have at least one last swallow flight. Kot the Riviera 
this time ; the Riviera is getting to be a combination of 
Bond Street and Piccadilly. Athens — what do you say? I 
remember the Grahams talking vaguely about their perhaps 
trying to spend a winter in Algiers, and pleasanter travelling 
companions you could not find anywhere ; but even if we 
have to go alone we shall not grumble much ? 

“ This reminds me that one part of your letter made me 
very angry — I mean about the expense of the dressing-bag, 
and your proposed economy at Worthing. I suppose it was 
those people at the Chateau that put those ideas into your 
head; but I wish you to understand that there is nothing so 
stupid as unnecessary economy for economy’s sake, and that 
when I wish you to begin cheese-paring I will tell you so. 
Extravagance is silly — and ill-bred too ; but there is some 
such thing as knowing what one can fairly spend in propor- 
tion to one’s income; and when I wish you to be more 
moderate in your expenditure I will tell you. And, indeed, 
it is not at such a time that you should think of expense at 
all. If this experiment is likely to end as we wish, then we 
shall not be considering a few pounds or so. 

“ I think you will be pleased to hear that Mrs. Bell does 
not manage one whit bettor than you — how could she, when 
everything was perfect ? But the situation is awkward. I 
imagined she was only coming here for a day or two — to set 
things going, as it were, under a new regime ; but the good 
woman shows no signs of departure ; and indeed she man- 
ages everything with such tact and good sense, and with 
such an honest, frank recognition of the facts of the case, 
that I am really afraid to hurt her and offend her by suggest- 
ing that she should not waste so much of her time up here. 
It was all very well with Mr. Melville — he was her hero, the 


312 


YOLANDE. 


master of the house, the re])resentative of the family that 
she looked up to ; but it is different with me ; and yet there 
is a kind of self-respect in the way in which she stiictly 
keeps to ner ‘ station,’ that one does not like to interfere. 
I have thouglit of pointing out to her that my last house- 
keeper was a person called Yolande Winterbourne, and that 
she was in no wise so respectful in her manner : but then I 
thought it better to let the good woman have her own way; 
and with all her respectfulness tliere is, as you know, a frank 
and honest friendliness which tells you that she quite under- 
stands her own value in tlie world. She has, however, been 
so communicative as to unfold to me her great project of the 
buying back of Monaglen ; and I must say it seems very ill- 
advised of Mr. Melville, just when tills project is about to be 
accomplished, to disappear and leave not even his address be- 
hind. All that Mrs. 13ell knows is that, on the morning you 
left, he announced his intention of crossing over the hills to 
Kingussie to catch the night train going south ; and Duncan 
says he saw him going up by the Corrie-an-eich. You know 
wliat an undertaking that is, and the stories they tell about 
people having been lost in these solitudes ; but, as Duncan 
says, there w.as not any one in the country who could cross 
the liills with less chance of coming to harm than Mr. Mel- 
ville. Still, he might have left tlie good woman his address; 
and she, it seems, did not consider it her ‘place’ to ask.” 

At this point Yolande stopped — her brain bewildered, 
her heart beating wildly. If ho liad crossed over the hills 
to catch the night train to the south, why, that was the train 
in which she also was travelling from Inverness to London ! 
Had he been in that same train, then — separated from her 
by a few carriages only — during the long darkness in which 
she seemed to be leaving beliind her youth and hope and 
almost the common desire of life? And why? He had 
spoken to no one of his going away. Mrs. Bell had guessed 
that he might be going, from his prej)arations of the prev- 
ious evening : but to leave on that very morning — to catch 
the very train in which she was seated — perhaps to come all 
the wayto London with her: here was food for speculation and 
wonder. Of course it never occurred to her that he might 
have come to any harm in crossing the hills; she did not 
even think of tliat. He was as familiar with these corries 
and slo])es and streams as with the door-step of the house at 
Gress. No ; he had waited for the train to come along ; per- 
haps she did not even look out from the window when they 


YOLANDE. 


313 


reached the station ; he would got into one of the car- 
riages ; and all through the long afternoon and evening, 
and on and through the blackness of the night, and in the 
gray of the morning, he was tliere. And perhaps at Eus- 
ton Square too ? He might easily escape her notice in the 
crowd if he wished to do so. Would he disappear into 
the wilderness of London ? But lie knew the name of 
the hotel she was going to — that had all been arranged 
between them ; might he not by accident have passed along 
Albcmai'le Street on one or other of those days ? Ah, if she 
had chanced to see him ! — would not London have seemed 
loss lonely ? would she not liave consoled herself with the 
fancy that somewhere or other there was one watching over 
her and guarding her ? A dream — a dream. Ii,.*he were 
indeed there, he had avoided meeting her. He had gone 
away. He had disappeared — into the unknown ; and per- 
haps the next she should hear of liim might be after many 
years, as of a gray-haired man going back to the place that 
once know him, with perhaps some vague question on his 

li})S — 

“ My hoiinie laddy, were ye sweet Jeanie Graham ? ” 

though to whom he might address that question she scarcely 
dared to ask or think. 

She only looked over the remainder of the letter; her 
hurried fancies were wandering far away. 

“ So you see I have no news; although in my solitude 
this gossip seems to unite you with me for a time. The 
only extraordinary thing that I have seen or met with since 
you left, we ran across the other night on coining home from 
the shooting. We had been to the far tops after ptarmigan 
and white hares, and got belated. Long before we reached 
home complete darkness overtook us ; a darkness so com- 
plete that, although we walked Indian tile, Duncan leading, 
1 could not see Shorthands, who was just in front of me ; 1 
had to follow him by sound, sliding doAvn among loose 
stones or jumping into peat-hags in a very happy-go-lucky 
fashion. Crossing the Allt-crom by the little swinging 
bridge you know of, was also a pleasant performance, for 
there had been rain, and the waters were much swollen, 
and made a terrible noise in the dark. However, it was 
when we were over the bridge and making for the lodge 
that I noticed the phenomenon I am going to tell you about 


314 


YOLANDE. 


I was trying to make out Jolm Sliortland’s legs in front of 
me when I saw on the ground two or three small points of 
white fire. I thought it strange for glow-worms to be so 
high above the level of the sea, and I called the others back 
to examine these things. But now I found, as they were 
all standing in the dark, talking, that wherever you lifted 
your foot from the wet black peat, immediately afterward a 
large number of these pale points of clear fire appeared, 
burning for about a minute, and then gradually disappear- 
ing. Some were larger and clearer than otliers — ^just as you 
remember, on a phosphorescent night at sea, there are in- 
dividual big stars separate from the general rush of white 
as the steamer goes on. We tried to lift some of the points 
of light,, but could not manage it ; so I take it they were 
not glow-worms or any other living creatures, but an emana- 
tion of gas from the peaty soils,only that, unlike the will-o-the- 
wisp, they were quite stationary, and burned wdth a clear 
white or blue-white flame — ^ihe size of the most of them 
not bigger than the head of a common pin, and sometimes 
about fifteen or twenty of them appearing where one foot 
had been pressed into the soft soil. Had Mr. Melville been 
at Gress 1 should have asked him about it ; no doubt he has 
noticed this thing in his rambles ; but he has been away, as 
I say, and nobody about here has any explanation to offer. 
The shepherds say that the appearance of this phosphoresc- 
ence, or electricity, or illuminated gas, or whatever it is, 
foretells a change in the weather ; but I have never yet met 
with any thing in heaven or earth of which the shepherds did 
not say the same thing. But as you, my dear Yolande, have 
not seen this phenomenon, and know absolutely nothing 
about it, you will be in a position to furnish me with a per- 
fectly consistent scientific theory about it, which I desire 
to have from you at your convenience. 

“ A hamper of game goes to you to-day, also a bunch 
of white heather from 

“ Y our affectionate father, 

“R. G. WiNTERBOUEXE.” 

She dwelt over the picture here presented of his solitary 
life in the north ; and she knew that now no longer were 
there happy dinner parties in the evening, and pleasant 
friends talking together ; and no longer was there any need 
for Duncan — outside in the* twilight — to play “ Melville*! 
Welcome Home.” 


YOLANDE, 


815 


CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

AWAKING. 

Another two days passed, Yolande doing her best to 
make the time go by briskly and pleasantly. They walked 
on the promenade or the pier ; they drove away inland 
through quaint little villages and quiet lanes. When the 
weather was wet they staid indoors, and she read to her 
mother, or they rigged up the big telescope in the bay-win- 
dow to follow the slow progress of the distant ships. And 
the strange thing was that, as Yolande gradually perceived, 
her mother’s intellect seemed to grow clearer and clearer 
while her spirits grew more depressed. 

“ I have been in a dream — I have been in a dream,” 
she used to say. “I will try not to go back. Yolande, 
you must help me. You must give me your hand.” 

“ You have been ill, mother ; the sea air will make you 
strong again,” the girl said, making no reference to other 
matters. 

However, that studied silence did not last. On the 
evening of the fifth day of their stay at Worthing, Yolande 
observed that her mother seemed still more de])ressod and 
almost suffering; and she did all she could to distract her 
attention and amuse her. At last the poor woman said, 
looking at her daughter in a curious kind of way, 

“ Yolande, did you notice when I came away from the 
house with you that I went back for a moment into my 
room ? ” 

“Yes, I remember you did.” 

“ I will tell you now why I went back.” She put her 
hand in her pocket and drew out a small blue bottle, which 
she put on the table. “ It was for that,” she said, calmly. 

A Hush of color overspread the hitherto pale features of 
the ^rl ; it was she who was ashamed and embarrassed; 
and she said, quickly : 

“Yes, I understand, mother — I know what it is. But 
now you will put it away ; you do not want it any longer — ” 

“ I am afraid,” the mother said in a low voice. “ Some* 


YOLANDE. 


310 

times T have tried until it seemed as if I was dyini]j, and 
that has brought me to life again. Oli, I lio})e 1 shall 
never touch it again : I want to be with you, walking by 
your side among the otlier people, and like tliem — like 
every one else.” 

“And so you shall, mother, ” Yolande said; and she 
rose and got hold of tlie bottle. “ I am going to throw this 
away.’ ’ 

“No, no, Yolande ; give it to me,” she said, but witii- 
out any excitement. “ It is no use throwing it away. That 
would make me think of it. I would get more. 1 could 
not rest until I had gone to a chemist’s and got more — per- 
haps some time when you were not looking. But when it 
is there I feel safe. 1 can push it away from me.” 

“ Very well, then,” said Yolande, as she went to the 
fire-place and placed the bottle conspicuously on the man- 
tel-shelf. Then she went back to her mother. “ It shall 
remain tliere, mother — as something you have no further 
need of. That is done wdth now. It was a great temptn^ 
tion when you were living in lodgings in a town, not in 
good air ; and you wmre very weak and ill ; but soon you 
will be strong enougli to get over your fits of faintness or 
depression without that.y She put her hand on her 
mother’s shoulder. “ It is for my sake that you have put it 
away ? ” 

In answer she took her daughter’s hand in both hers 
and covered it with kisses. 

“ Yes, yes, yes. I have put it away, Yolande, for your 
sake — I have put it away forever, now. But you have a 
little excuse for me ? You do not think so hardly of me as 
the others ? I have been near dying — and alone. I did 
not know I had such a beautiful daughter — coming to take 
care of me, too! And I don’t want you to go away now 
— not for a while, at least. Stay with me for a little time 
— until — until I have got to be just like the people we meet 
out walking — just like every one else; and then I shall 
have no fear of being alone ; I shall never, never touch 
tlhatP 

She glanced at the bottle on the raantel-sh.elf with a 
sort of horror. She held her daughter’s hand tight. And 
Yolande kept by her until, not thinking it was prudent to 
make too much of this little incident, she begged her 
mother to come and get her things on for another short 
stroll before tea. 


YOLANDE. 


817 


Toward the evening, however, it Avns Ciear that this 
poor woman was suffering more and more, although she 
eiKhMivored to })ut a brave face on it, and only desired that 
Yolande should be in the room with her. At dinner slie 
took next to nothing ; and Yolande, on her own responsi- 
bility, begged to be allowed to send for some wine for her. 
But no. She seemed to think that there was something to 
be got tiirough, and she would go through with it. Some- 
times she went to the window and looked out, listening to 
tlie sotind of the sea in the darkness. Theti she would 
come back and sit down by tlie fire, and ask Yolande to 
read to her — this, that or tlie otlier tiling. Jaut what she 
most liked to have read and re-read to her was “ A Dream 
of Fair Women ’’ ; and she liked to have Yolande standing 
by the fire-place, so that she could regard her. And some- 
times the tears would gather in her eyes, when the girl 
came to the lines about Jephthah’s daughter: 

“ emptied of all joy, 
Leaving the dance and song. 

“Leaving the olive gardens far below, 

• Leaving tbe promise of my bridal bower, 

The valleys of grape-loaded vines tliat glow 
Beneath the battled tower. 

“ Tlie light white cloud swam over ns. Anon 
AVe heard the lion roaring from his den ; 

We saw the large wliite stars rise one by one, 

Or, from the darken’d glen, 

“ Saw God divide the night with flying flame, 

And thunder on the everlasting hills. 

I heard Him, for He spake, and grief became 
A solemn scorn of ills.” 

“ft was not fair — it was not fair,” she murmured, 

“ What, mother ? ” 

“ To send you here.” 

“ Where ought I to be, then,” she asked, proudly, eX’ 
cept by your side ? ” 

“ You ? Your young life should not bo sacrificed to 
mine. Why did they ask you ? I should thank God, Yo- 
lande, if you were to go away this evening-^uow — if you 
were to go away, and be happy with your youtli and beauty 
and kind friends ; that is the life fit for you.” 

“ But I am not going, mother.” 

“Ah, you don’t know — you don’t know,” the other said, 


318 


YOLAxVDB. 


with a kind of despair coming over her. ‘‘ I am ill, Yolande 
I am wretched and miserable.” 

“ The more reason I should stay, surely.” 

“ I wish you would go away and leave me. I can get 
back to London. What have I been thinking of is beyond 
me. I am too ill. But you — you — I shall always think of 
you as moving through the world like a princess — in sun 
light.” 

“ Dear mother,” said Yolande, firmly, “ I think we said 
w-e w^ere going to have no more nonsense. I am not^going 
to leave you. And w^hat you were looking forward to is 
quite impossible. If you are ill and suffering now, I am 
sorry ; I would gladly bear it for your sake. I have had 
little trouble in the world ; I would take your share. But 
going away from you I am not. So you must take courage 
and hope j and some day — ah, some day soon you will bo 
glad.” 

“ But if I am restless to-night,” said she, glancing at her 
daughter, uneasily, “ and walking up and down, it will dis- 
turb you.” 

“ What does it matter?” said Y'olande, cheerfully. 

“ You might get another room.” 

“ I am not going into any other room. Do you think I 
would forsake my patient.” 

“ Will you leave the light burning, then ? ” 

“ If you wish it, yes ; but not high, for you must sleep.” 

But when they were retiring to rest the mother begged 
that the little blue bottle should be placed on the bedroom 
chimney-piece. 

“ Why, mother, why ? You surely would not touch it ? ” 

“ Oh, I hope not ! I hope not! But I shall know it is 
near — if I am like to die.” 

“ You must not fear that, mother. I will put the bottle 
on the chimney-piece, if you like, but you need not even 
think of it. That is more likely to cause your death than 
anything else. And you would not break your promise to 
me ? ” 

She pressed her daughter’s hand ; that was all. 

Yolande did not go quickly to sleep, for she knew that 
her mother was suffering — the labored sighs from time to 
time told her as much. She lay and listened to the wash 
of the sea along the shingle, and to the tramp of the late 
wayfarers along the pavement. She heard the people of the 
hoiLse go upstairs to bed. And then, bv-and-bv, the still 


YOLANDE. 


319 


ness of the room, and the effects of the fresli air, and the 
naturai healthiness of youth, combined to make her drowsy, 
and rather against her inclination, her eyes slowly closed. 

She was waked by a moan — as of a soul in mortal agony. 
But even in her alarm she did not start up ; she took time 
to recover her senses. And if the poor mother were really 
in such suffering, would it not be better for her to lie as if 
she were asleep ? No appeal could be made to her for any 
j-elaxation of the promise that had been given her. 

Then she became aware of a stealtliy noise; and a 
strange terror took possession of her. She opened her eyes 
ever so slightly — glimmering through the lashes only — and 
there she saw that her worst fears were being realized. 
Her mother had got out of bed and stolen across the room 
to the sideboard in the parlor, returning with a glass. 
Yolande, all trembling, lay and watched. She was not 
going to interfere — it was not part of her plan ; and you 
may be sure she had bonteraplated this possibility before 
now. And very soon it appeared why the poor woman had 
taken the trouble to go for a glass ; it was to measure out 
the smallest quantity that she thought would alleviate her 
anguish. She poured a certain quantity of the black-look- 
ing fluid into tlie glass ; then she regarded it, as if with 
hesitation ; then she deliberately poured back one drop, two 
drops, three drops ; and drank the rest at a gulp. Then, 
in the same stealthy fashion, she took the glass to the par- 
lor and left it tliere, and crept silently back again and into 
bed. 

Yolande rose. Her face was pale, her lips firm. She 
did not look at her mother ; but, just as if she were assum- 
ing her to be asleep, she quietly went out of the room, and 
presently returned with a glass in her hand. She went to 
the chimney-piece. Very well she knew that her mother’s 
eyes were fixed on her, and intently watching her ; and as 
she poured some of that dark liquid into the glass, no doubt 
she guessed, the poor woman was imagining that this was 
an experiment to see what had been taken out of the bottle. 
But that was not quite Yolande’s purpose. When she had 
poured out, as nearly as she could calculate, the same 
quantity that her mother had taken, she turned her face to 
the light, and deliberately drank the contents of the glass. 
It w'as done in a second ; there was a sweet, mawkish, 
pungent taste in the mouth, and a shiver of disgust as she 


820 


YOLANDE, 


•wallowed the thing ; then she calmly replaced the bottle 
on the chimney-piece. 

But the mother had sprung from her bed with a wild 
shriek, and caught the girl by both hands. 

“ Yolande! Yolande ! what have you done?” 

“ What is right for you, mother, is right for me,” she 
said, in clear and settled tones. “ It is how I mean to do 
always.” 

The frantic grief of this poor creature was pitiable to 
witness. She flung her arms ronnd her daughter, and drew 
her to her, and wept aloud, and called down vengeance upon 
herself from Heaven. And then in a passion of remorse she 
flew at the bottle tliat was standing there, and would have 
hurled it into the fireplace, had not Yolande, whose head 
was beginning to swim already, interposed, calmly and 
firmly. She took the bottle from her mother’s hand and re- 
placed it. 

“ Ho ; it must remain there, mother. It must stand there 
until you and I can bear to know that it is there, and not to 
wish for it.” 

Even in the midst of her wild distress and remorse there 
was one phrase in this speech that had the effect of silencing 
the mother altogether. She drew back, aghast, her face 
white, her eyes staring with horror. 

“You and I?” she repeated. “ You and I ? You — to 
become like — like — ” 

“ Yes,” said Yolande. “ What is right for you is right 
for me ; that is what I mean to do — always. How, dear 
mother,” she added, in a more languid way,“ I will lie down 
— I am giddy — ” 

She sat down on the edge of the bed, putting her hand to 
her forehead, and rested so awhile ; then insensible after a 
time she drooped down on to the piilow, although the fright- 
ened and frantic mother tried to get an arm round her 
waist, and very soon the girl had relapsed inho perfect in- 
sensibility. 

And then a cry rang through the house like the cry of the 
Egyptian mothers over the death of their first-born. The 
poison seemed to act in directly opposite ways in the brains 
oi these two women — the one it plunged into a profound stu- 
])or ; the other it .drove into frenzy. She threw herself on 
iho senseless form, and wound her arms round the girl, and 
shrieked aloud that she had murdered her child — her beauti- 
ful daughter — she was dying — dead — and no one to save 


YOLANDE. 


321 




^ i • V, • ■ 


ner — murdered by her own mother! The little household 
was roused at once, Jane came rushing in, terrified. The 
landlady was the first to recover her wits, and instantly she 
sent a house-maid for a doctor. Jane, being a strong-armed 
woman, dragged the hysterical mother back from the bed, 
and )>athed her young mistress’s with eau-de-Cologne ; it was 
all the poor kind creature could think of. Then they tried 
to calm the mother somewhat, for she was begging them 
to gi^ e her a knife that she might kill herself and die with 
her child. 

I'he doctor’s arrival quieted matters somewliat; and he 
had SLjarcely been a minute in the room when his eyes fell 
on the small blue bottle on tlie mantelpiece. That he in- 
stantly got hold of ; the label told him what were the con- 
tents ; and when he went back to the bedside of the girl, 
who was lying insensible in a heavy breathing sleep, her 
chest laboring as if against soii^ weight, he had to exercise 
some control over the mother to get her to show him pre- 
cisely the quantity of tiie fluid that liad been taken. The 
poor woman seemed beside herself. She dropped on her 
knees before him in a passion of tears, and clasped her 
hands. 

“ Save her! save her ! s^.ve my child to me ! If you can 
give her back to me I will die a hundred times before harm 
shall come to her — my beautiful child that came to me like 
an angel, with kindness and open hands, and this is what I 
have done 1 ” 

“ Hush ! hush ! ” said the doctor, and he took her by the 
hand and gently raised her. “Now you must be quiet. 
I am not going to w'ake your daughter. If that is what she 
took sh(i will sleep it off ; slie is young, and I should say 
healthy. I am going to let natui-e work the cure, though I 
fear the young lady will have a bad headache in the morn- 
ing. It is a most mischievous thing to have such drugs in 
the house. “ You are her maid, I understand ? ” he said, 
turning to Jane. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Ah. Well, I think for to-night you had better occupy 
that bed over there, and the young lady’s mother can have 
a bed elsewhere. I don’t think you need fear anything — ex- 
cept a headache in the morning. Let her sleep as long 
as she may. In the morning let her go for a drive in the 
fresh air, if she is too languid to walk.” 

But the mother cried so bitterly on hearing of this ar- 


322 


YOLANDE, 


rangement that they had to consent to her retaining her 
place ill the room, wdiile Jane said she could make herself 
comfortable enough in an arm-chair. As for the poor 
mother, she did not go back to her own bed at all ; she sat 
at the side of Yolande’s bed — at the foot of it, lest the sound 
of her sobbing should disturb the sleeper; and sometimes 
she put her hand ever so lightly on the bedclothes, with a 
kind of pat, as it were, while the tears were running down 
her face. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

“ o’ BY-GANE DAYS AND ME.” 

The Master of Lynn was walking along Church Street, 
Inverness, leisurely smoking his morning cigar, when a small 
boy from the hotel overtook him and handed him a letter. 
He glanced at the hand writing, and saw it was from his sister ; 
so he put it in his pocket without opening it. Then he went 
on and into Mr. Macleay’s shop. 

This was a favorite lounge of his. For not only was it a 
valuable museum of natural history — all kinds of curiosities 
and rarities being sent thither to be preserved — but also, to 
any one with sufficient knowledge, it afforded a very fair re- 
port as to what was going on in the different forests. More 
than that, it was possible for one to form a shrewd guess as 
to the character of some of the people then wandering about 
the Highland — the sort of sportsmen, for example, who 
sent to be staffed such rare and remarkable birds as gannets 
kittiwakes, and skarts, or who wished to have all the honors 
of a glass case and a painted background conferred on a 
three-pound trout. It was not difficult (as he sat on the 
counter or strolled about) to imagine the sim])le joy with which 
these trophies had been secured and carefully packed and 
sent away for jireservation ; while, on the other hand, some 
great stag’s head — a magnificent and solitary prize — perhaps 
awoke a touch of envy. The good-natured jiroprietor of the 
establishment, busy with his own affairs, let this young man 
do pretty much what he liked in the jdace; and so it was 
that the Master, having had a look at the latest specimens 
of 'ffie skill of the workshop, took out his sister’s letter and 


y OLANDE, 


read it, and then begged for a sheet of pape ' and the lojin 
of a pen. He thought he might just as well hiiisn his 
cigar here, and answer his sister at the same time* 

He wTote as follows : 

‘‘ Inverness, September 29. 

“ Dear Polly, — I wish you would be pleased to moderate 
the rancor of your tongue ; there is quite enough of that 
commodity at Lynn. Whoever has told you of the latest 
row has probably not overstepped the truth ; but isn’t it a 
blessed dispensation of Providence that one can obtain a 
little peace at the Station Hotel ? However, that is becom- 
ing slow. I wish I knew where Jack Melville is; I would 
propose a little foreign travel. For one thing, I certainly 
don’t mean to go back to Lynn until Mr Winterbourne has 
left Allt-nam-Ba ; of course he must see very well tliat the 
people at the Towers have cut him ; and no doubt he under- 
stands the reason ; and he might ask, don’t you see ; and 
very likely he might get angry and indignant (I shouldn’t 
blame him) and then he might ask Yolande to break off the 
engagement. Such things have happened before. But you 
needn’t get wild with me. I don’t seek to break off the en- 
gagement; certainly not; if that is what they are aiming at 
they will find me just as pertinacious as you were about 
Graham (you needn’t assume that you have ail the obstinacy 
ill the world) ; and although I’m not too squeamish about 
most things, still, I’m not going to break my word simjily 
because Auntie Tab doesn’t like Mr. Winterbourne’s poli- 
tics. 

“Now there’s is a chance for you, Miss Polly. Why 
don’t you set to work to make a leopard change his spots ? 
You think you can talk anybody over. Why don’t you talk 
over Mr. Winterbourne into the paths of virtue and high 
Toryism? I don’t see why it should be so difficult. Of 
course he’s violent enough in the House ; but that’s to keep 
in with his constituents; and to talk with him after a day’s 
shooting you -wouldn’t guess he had any politics at all. I’d 
bet a sovereign he would rather get a royal than be made a 
cabinet minister. You’d much better go and coax him into 
the paths of the just than keep getting into rages with me. 
You talk as if it was you that wanted to marry Yolande ; or 
rather as if it was you who were going to buy the Corrie- 
▼reak side from Sir John, and couldn’t wait for the convey 
ancing to be done Such impetuosity isn’t in accor<I witl. 


S24 


TOLANDE. 


yonr advancing years. The fact is, you haven’t been having 
your fair dose of flirtation lately, and you’re in a bad tem- 
per. But why with me ? I didn’t ask the people to Invers- 
troy. I can see what sort of people they are by the cart-load 
of heads Graham has sent here (I am writing in Macleay’s 
shop). If ever I can afford to keep our forest in my own 
hands there won’t he anything of that going on — no matter 
who is in the house. 

“ And why should you call upon me for the explanation 
of the ‘mystery’? What mystery is involved in Yolande’s 
going south? Her father, I understand, leaves on the 15th 
of October; and I am not surprised that nothing has been 
said about a lease of the place. Of course Winterbourne 
must understand. But in the south, my dear Polly, if you 
would only look at the reasonable aspect of affairs, we may 
all of us meet on less embarrassing terms; and I for one 
shall not be sorry to get away for the winter from the society 
of Tabby and Co. Yolande and I have not quarelled in 
the least; on that point you may keep your hair smooth. 
But T am not at all sure that I am not bound in honor to 
tell her how I am placed; and what treatment in the future 
— or rather what no-treatment — she may expect from my 
affectionate relatives. Of course it can not matter to her. 
She will be independent of them — I also. But I think I 
ought to let her know, so that she will not be surprised at 
their silence; and of course if she resents* their attitude to 
her father (as is very likely) — well, that is their fault, not 
mine. I am not going to argue any more about it; and as 
for anything like begging for their patronage or sufferance 
of Yolande, that is entirely out of the question. I will not 
have it, and I have told you so before; so there may just 
as well be an end to your lecture. I am a vertebrate an- 
imal. 

“Yolande is at Worthing — not in London, as you seem to 
think. I don’t know her address; but I have written to Allt- 
nam-ba for it. I believe she left rather in a hurry. No; I 
sha’n’t send it to you; for you would probably only make mis- 
chief by interfering; and indeed it is not with her that any 
pursuasioii is necessary. Persuasion? — it’s a little common- 
sense that is necessary. But that kind of plant doesn’t flourish 
at the Towers — I never heard of Jack Melville getting it for his 
collection of dried weeds. 

“ Well, good-by. Don’t tear your hair. 

“Y^our affectionate brother, 


Archie. 


JOLANDE. 


S25 


P.S. — It is very kind of you to remind me of baby’s 
birthday ; but liow on earth do you expect me to know, 
what to send it? A rocking-horse, or a Latin Grammar, or 
what?” 

He leisurely folded the letter, put it in an envelope, and 
addressed it; then he turned to have a further chat with 
Mr. Macleay about the various triumphs of the taxiderniio 
art standing around. Several of these were in the window; 
and he was idly regarding them, when he caught sight, 
through the panes, of someone passing by outside. For a 
second he seemed to pause, irresolute; then he quickly said 
a’ood-morning to Mr. Macleay, went outside, threw away 
nis cigar, and folio w^ed the figure that he liad seen passing 
the w’indow. It was that of a young woman, neatly dressed 
indeed, it was no other than Shena Yan — though probably 
Janet Stewart liad acquired tliat name when she was younger, 
for now she could not strictly be described as fair, though hei 
hair was of a light brown and her eyes of a deep and exceed- 
ingly pretty blue. 

“Good-morning, Miss Stewart,” said he, overtaking her. 

The young lady turned quickly, perhaps with a slight 
touch of alarm as well as surprise in her look. 

“Oh, good morning, Mr. Leslie,” said she, with a certain 
reserve — not to say coldness — of manner; though the sound 
of her speech, with its slight accent, was naturally gentle and 
winning. 

“ I had no idea you were in Inverness,” said he. “ I just 
caught a glimpse of you while I was in Macleay’s shop. Ydiy, 
it is a long time since I have seen you now. 

She was a little embarrassed and nervous; probably desirous 
of getting away, and yet not wishing to be rude. 

“ I am often in Inverness now,” she said, with her eyes 
averted, “since my sister was married.” 

“Are you going to the steamer?” he asked, for she carried 
a small parcel in her hand. 

“ Yes,” said she, with some hesitation. “I was thinking of 
walking to the steamer.” 

“ Then I suppose I may go as far with you,” said he, 
“ for I have a letter that I want the clerk to have sent on to 
inverstroy.” 

She glanced quickly up and down the street; but he did 
not give her time to say yea or nay ; and then, with some- 
thing of silence and resentment on her part, they set out 


3^20 


YOLA.VDE. 


together. It was a very pleasant and cheerful morning ; 
and their way was out into the country ; for Miss Stewart s 
destination was that lock on the Caledonian Canal from 
which the steamer daily sails for the south. Nevertheless 
the young lady did not seem over-well pleased. 

At first they talked chiefly about her friends and relfu 
tives, he asking the questions and she answering with some- 
what few words ; and she was careful to inform him that 
now she was more than ever likel) to be away from Inver- 
ness-shire, for her brother had recently been elected to one 
of the professorsliij)s at Aberdeen, and he had taken a 
house there, and he liked to liave her in the house, because 
of looking after things. She gave him to understand that 
tliere was a good deal of society in the ancient city of 
Aberdeen, and that the young men of the University were 
anxious to visit at her brother’s house. 

“It is a natural thing,” said pretty Shena Van, with a 
touch of pride in her tone, “ for the young men to be glad 
to be friends with my brother; not only because he is one 
of the })rofessors, but because he was very distinguished at 
Edinburgh, and at Heidelberg too — very distinguished in- 
deed.” 

“ Oh yes ; I know that,” said the Master of Lynn, 
warmly. “ I have heard Jack Melville speak of him. I dare 
say your father is very j)roud of his success.” 

“ Indeed I think we are all rather proud of it,” said 
Miss Stewart. 

But when they had crossed the' bridge over the wide and 
shallow waters of the Ness, and were getting away from the 
town into the quietude of the country, he endeavored to 
win over his conipanion to something more of friendliness. 
He was a gentle-spoken youth ; and this coldness on the 
part of his ancient comrade he seemed to consider unfair. 

“ We used to be great friends,” said he ; “ but I sup- 
pose you have forgotten all that. I suppose you have for- 
gotten the time when Shena Van was reaching out for the 
branches of a rowan-tree, and fell into the burn ? ” 

She blushed deeply ; but there was the same cold re- 
serve in her manner as slie said, 

“ That was a long time ago.” 

“ Sometime ,” said he, witli a sort of gentleness in his look, 
“ I wish -your father had never gone away to Strathaylort ; 
you and 1 used to be great friends at one time.” 

“ Mv father is well nlease’d with Strathaylort,” said 


YOLANDE, 


327 


Miss Stewart, “ and so are we all ; for the manse is larger, 
and we have many more friends in Stratliaylort. And the 
friends we left — well I suppose they can remember us when 
they wish to remember us.” 

This was rather pointed ; but he took no notice of it — he 
was so anxious to win his companion over to a more concil- 
iatory mood. 

“ And are you as fond of reading poetry as ever ? ” said 
he, regarding her ; but always her eyes were averted. 

“ Sometime I read poetry, as I read other things,” she 
said ; “ but with my sister in Inverness and my brother in 
Aberdeen, I am very often visiting now.” 

“ Do you remember how we to used to read “ IToratius ” 
aloud, on the hill above Corrie-an-eich ? And the bridge 
below was the bridge that the brave Horatus kept ; and 
you seemed to see him jump into the Allt-crom, not the 
Tiber at all ; and I am quite sure 'when you held out 
your finger and pointed — when 

“ lie saw on Palatinus 
The white Porch of his home ’ — 

you were looking at the zinc-roofed coach-house at Allt- 
nam-Ba.” 

“ I was very silly then,” said Shena Van, with red 
cheeks. 

“ And when you were Boadicea, a flock of sheep did very 
well as an army for you to address ; only the collies used to 
think you were mad.” 

“ I dare say they were right.” 

“ Do you remember the Sword Chant of Thorstein 
Raudi, and my bringing you a halberd from the Towers — ’ 
Might-Giver ! I kiss thee;’ ‘Joy-Giver! I kiss thee;’ 
‘ Fame Giver 1 I kiss thee, ? ’ 

“ Indeed you have a wonderful recol Iction,” said Miss 
Stewart. “ I should think it was time to forget such folly. 
As one grows up there are more serious things to attend to. 
I am told ” — and here, for the first time, she turned her 
beautiful dark blue eyes to him, but not her face ; so that 
she was looking at him rather askance, and in a curious, 
interrogative, and at the same time half-combative fashion — ” 
I am told that you are about to be married.” 

Now it was his turn to be embarrassed ; and ho did 
not meet those too searching eyes. 

“ As you say, Shena, life turns out to have serious duties 


328 


YOLANDE. 


and not to be quite like what one dreams about when one 
is young,” he observed, somewhat vaguely. “ That can’t 
prevent your remembering other days with a good deal of 
affection — ” 

“ But you must let me congratulate you, Mr. Leslie,” 
said she, sharply bringing him to his senses. “And if the 
wedding is to be at Lynn, I am sure my father would be 
glad to come over from Strathaylort.” 

There could be nothing further said on this rather awk- 
ward subject just at the moment, for they had arrived at 
the steamer, and he had to go and hunt out the clerk to in- 
trust him witli those small commissions. Then he rejoined 
Miss Stew'^art, and set out for the towm again ; but wliilc 
she w as quite civil and friendly in a formal fashion, he could 
not draw’ her into any sort of conjoint regarding of their 
youthful and sentimental days. Nay, more ; wlien tliey got 
back to tlie bridge she intimated, in the gentlest and most 
respectful way, ’that she w’ould rather go tlirough tlie towm 
alone ; and so he was forced to surrender tlie cruel solace 
of her companionship. 

“ Good-by Shena,” said he, and held her hand for a mo- 
ment. 

“ Good-morning, Mr. Leslie,’^ said she, wdthout turning 
her eyes tow^ard him. 

Tlien he w’alked away by the side of tlie river, w'ith a 
general sense of being aggrieved settling dowm on him. 
Whichever w’ay he turned, people seemed only disposed to 
tlnvart and controvert him. Surely lliere was no harm in 
being on friendly terms wdth Shena Van, and in reminding 
her of the days when he and she w'ere boy and girl together ? 
If he had jilted her, she w’ould have good grounds for be 
ing vexed and angry; but he had not. Nothing in that di- 
rection had ever been spoken of between them. It is true 
he had at one time been very much in love wdth her; and 
although he had but little romance in his character (that be- 
ing an ingredient not likely to be fostered by the air of Ox- 
ford, or by the society of the young officers of the Seaforth 
Highlanders), still the glamor of love had for the moment 
blinded him, and he had seriously contemplated asking her 
to be his wife. He had argued wdth himself that this was 
no stage case of a noble lord w^edding a village maiden, 
but the son of an almost penniless peer marrying a w’ell ac- 
complished young lady of perfectly respectable parentage, a 
young lady whose beautiful qualities of mind were known 


YOLANDE. 


829 


only to a few — only to one, perhaps, who had discovered 
them by looking into the magic mirror of a pair of strangely 
dark and clear blue eyes. The infatuation was strong — for 
a time ; but when pretty Mrs. Graham came to learn of it 
there was trouble. Now the master of Lynn detested trouble. 
Besides, his sister’s arguments in this case were terribly 
cogent. She granted that Shena Van might be everything 
he said, and quite entitled, by her intelligence and virtues 
and amiabilities of character, to "become the future mistress 
of Lynn Towers. But she had not a penny. And was ail 
the labor that had been bestowed on freeing the estate from 
its burdens to be thrown away? Were the Leslies to re- 
main in those pinched circumstances that prevented their tak- 
ing their proper place in the country, to say nothing of Lon- 
don ? Mrs. Graham begged and implored ; there was some dis- 
tant and awful thunder on the part of his lordship ; and then 
Archie Leslie (who hated fuss) began to withdraw himself 
from the fatal magnetism of those dark blue eyes. Nothing 
had been said ; Miss Stewart could not complain. But the 
beautiful blue eyes had a measure of shrewdness in them : 
she may have guessed ; nay, more, she may have hoj)ed, and 
even cherished her own little romantic dreams of affection. 
Be that as it may, the young Master of Lynn gave way to 
tliose entreaties, to that warning of storm. When his sister 
said he was going to make a fool of himself he got angry, 
but at the same time he saw as clearly as she that Lynn was 
starved for want of money. And although love’s young 
dream might never return in all its freshness of wonder and 
longing, still there were a large number of pretty and hand- 
some young women in this country, some one of whom (if 
her eyes had not quite the depth and clearness of the eyes 
of Shena Van) might look very well at the head of the dinner 
table at Lynn Towers. And so for a time he left Lynn, 
and went away to Edinburgh ; and if his disappointment and 
isolation did drive him into composing a little song with the 
refrain, 

“ O Shena, Shena, my heart is true 
To you where’er you go,” 

that was only the last up-flickering flame from the dust and 
ashes of the extinguished romance ; and the Master of Lynn 
had done everything that was required of him, and had a 
fair right to expect that his relatives wmuld remember that 
in the future. 


530 


YOLAiVDE. 


Arid now it cnn be well understood how, as Ke walked 
alone along the shores of the wide river, lie should feel that 
lie had been ill-treated. Not even Janet Stewart’s friend- 
ship was left to him. He had looked once more into tliost? 
blue eyes ; and he could remember them shining with 
laughter, or dilated with an awful majesty as Boadicca ad- 
dressed an army of sheep, or perhaps softening a little in 
farewell when he was going away to Oxford ; but now there 
was nothing but coldness." She did not care to recall the 
^Id days. And indeed, as he walked on and out into the 
country, some other verses that he had learned from Shena 
Van in those by-gone days began to come into his head, and 
he grew in a way to compassionate himself, and to think of 
himself in future years as looking back upon his youth Avith 
a strange and pathetic regret— mingled with some other 
feelings. 

“ O, mind ye, hive, how aft we lelt 
The deavin’, dinsome toiin, 

To wander by the green burn-side 
And hear its water croon ? 

The simmer leaves hung ower our heads, 

The dowers burst round our feet, 

And in the gleamin’ o’ the wood 
The throssii whusslit sweet.” 

# * * # # # 

“ O dear, dear Jeanie Morrison, 

Since we were sindered young 
I’ve never seen your face, nor heard 
The music o’ your tongue ; 

But I could hug all wretchedness. 

And happy could I dee, 

Did I but ken your heart still dreamed 
O’ by-gane days and me!” 

These Avere some of the lines he remembered (they were 
great favorites of Shena Van in former times) ; but instead 
of this compassionating of himself by proxy, as it were, 
leading him to any gentleness of feeling, it only made him 
the more bitter and angry. “ I have had enough of this — 
I have had enough of it,” he kept repeating to himself. 
“Very few men I knoAV have kept as straight as I have. 
They’d better look out. I haA’^e just about enough of this.” 

That evening he dined Avith the officers at Fort George, 
and drank far more Avine than he usually did — for he was 
vei-y abstemious in that direction. After dinner he pro- 
posed unlimited loo ; but more moderate counsels nreA^ailed, 


rOLANDE. 


331 


and the familiar and innocent sixpenny Nap was agreed 
upon. But even at this mild performance you can lose a 
fair amount if you persistently “ go Nap on almost any 
sort of a hand that turns up. 


CIIAPTEIl XL. 

A GUESS. 

Some well-known pieces of writing have described to us 
the ecstatic visions vouchsafed to the incipient opium-eater, 
and these, or some of these, may be a faithful enough 
record. At all events, Yolande’s first and only experience 
was of a very different character. All tlirough that terrible 
night one horror succeeded another, and always she felt as 
if she were bound and gagged — that she could neither flee 
away from those hideous things, nor shriek out her fear and 
cry for aid. First she was in a vast forest of impenetrable 
gloom ; it was night, and yet there Avas a gray ness in the 
open glade ; there Avas no sky Ausiblc ; she Avas alone. Then 
doAvn one of those glades came a slow procession — figures 
walking tAvo by tvAm ; and at first she thought they Averc 
monks, but as she came nearer she could see that Avithin 
each cloak and hood there Avas a skeleton Avith eyes of Avhite 
fire. They took no heed of her; she could not move; in 
(he aAvful silence she beheld them range themselves behind 
ihe trunks of the great oaks, and althougli they were noAV 
invisible, it appeared to her that she could still see their 
eyes of fire, and that they were gazing on the figure of a 
woman that noAv drew near. The Avoman Avas Avringing 
her hands ; her hair Avas dishcA^elled ; she looked neither to 
the right nor to the left. And then, as she passed, the 
spectres came out tAVO by tAVO, and formed a croAvd and fol- 
loAved her; they pressed on her and surrounded her, 
though she did not seem to see them ; it Avas a doom over- 
taking her. The night grcAV darker ; a funeral song Avas 
heard far away, not^as from any opening heavens, but 
Avithin the black hollows of the Avood — and then the ghastly 
pageant disa})pearcd. 

Presently she Avas in a white world of snoAv and ie« 


YOLANDE. 


and a frantic despair had seized her, for she knew that she 
was drifting away from the land. This way and that slie 
tried to escape, but always she came to a blue impassable 
chasm. Slie tried to spring from one side to the other, but 
something held her back ; she could not get away. There 
was a fire-mountain thej-e, the red flames looking so strange 
in tlie middle of the white world ; and the noise of the 
roaring of it was growing fainter and more faint as she 
fioated away on tliis moving ice. The sea that she was 
entering — she could see it far ahead of her — was black, but 
a thin gray mist hung over it; and she knew that once she 
was within that mist she would see nothing more, nor be 
heard of more, for ever and ever. Slie tried no longer to 
escape ; horror had paralyzed her ; she wanted to call 
aloud for help, but could not. Denser and denser grew 
the mist; and now the black sea was all around her; she 
was as one already dead ; and Avhen she tried to think ot 
those she was leaving forever, she could not remember 
them. Her friends? the people she knew? she could re- 
member nothing. This vague terror and hopelessness filled 
her mind; otherwise it was a blank; she could look, but 
she could not think ; and now the black waters had reached 
almost to her feet, and around her were the impenetrable 
folds of air, so that she could no longer see. 

And so she ])assed from one vision of terror to another all 
through the long night, until in the gray of the morning she 
slowly awoke to a sort of half-stupefied consciousness. She 
liad a headache, so frightful that at first she could scarcely 
open her eyes ; but slie did not mind that ; she was over- 
joyed that she could convince herself of her escape from 
those hideous ])hantoms, and of her being in the actual 
living world. Then she began to recollect- She thought 
of what she had done — perhaps with a little touch of pride, 
as of something that he might approve, if ever he should 
come to know. Then, though her head was throbbing so 
dreadfully, she cautiously opened her eyes to look around. 

Ko sooner had she done so than Jane, who was awake, 
stole noiselessly to her young mistress’s bedside. Yolande 
made a gesture to insure silence — for she saw that her 
mother was lying asleep ; then she rose, wrapped a shawl 
round her, and slipped out of the room, followed by her 
maid. 

« What shall I get you, miss? — I have kept the fii-e 
alight down-stairs. I can get you a cup of tea in a minute.’' 


YOLANDE, 


83.3 


“No, no, never mind,” said Yolande, pressing her liand 
to her head. “Tell me about my mother. How long has 
she been asleep ? ” 

“ Not very long. Oh, she has passed a dreadful night— 
the poor lady. She was so excited at first I tliought slie 
would have killed herself ; but in the end she fairly cried 
herself to sleep, after I got her to lie down on the bed. 
And you don’t feel very ill, miss, I hop^? But it was a 
terrible thing for you to do.” 

“ W hat ? ” 

“ I beg your pardon, miss,” said Jane, with a little 
embarrassment; “but I guessed what you had done. I 
guessed from what the poor lady said. Oh, you won’t do 
that again, will you miss ? You might have killed yourself, 
and then what ever should I have said to your papa? And I 
don’t think you will ever have need to do it again — I heard 
what the poor lady kept saying to herself ; you won’t have 
to do any such terrible thing again ; she declares that she 
will kill herself before you have cause to do that again.” 

“ I hope there won’t beany occasion,” said Yolande, 
calmly ; and then she went to the window. 

It was truly a miserable morning — dull and gray and 
overclouded ; and it had rained during the night ; the street 
and the terrace were sodden and wet and a leaden-hued sea 
tumbled on to the empty beach. But notwithstanding that, 
and notwithstanding her headache, Yolande vaguely felt 
that she had never looked on a fairer picture. This plain, 
matter-of-fact, commonplace world was such a beautiful 
thing after those phantom horrors through wliich she had 
passed. She liked to look at the solid black boats high up 
on the shingle, at the terraced footway, at the iron railing 
along the road. She began to wish to be out in that sub- 
stantial world ; to see more of it, and more closely : per- 
haps the cold sea-breezes would temper the racking pain in 
her head ? 

“ Jane,” said she, “do you think you could slip into the 
room and bring me my things without waking my mother ? ” 

“ But you are not going out, miss ?” said the maid, 
wondering, “ The night is scarcely over yet. Won’t you 
go back and, lie down ? ” 

“ No, no,” said Yolande, almost with a shudder of 
dread. “ I have had terrible dreams — I want to get out- 
side — and I have a headache besides. Perhaps the fresh 
air wiU make it better. But you can lie down, Jane, after 


331 : 


YOLANDE. 


I have gone ; and don’t wake my mother, no matter liow 
late she sleeps. When I come back, perhaps the ])eople* in 
the house will be up, and 1 shall try to take some break 
fast — ” 

“ I could get it for you now, miss,” said Jane, eagerly. 

“ I could not touch it,” the girl said, shivering. 

The maid went and fetched her things ; and when she had 
dressed she stole noiselessly down the stairs and got out- 
side. How cold and damp the air felt! but yet it was fresh 
and new and strange ; the familiar sound of tlie sea seemed 
pleasant and companionable. As yet, in the dull gray 
dawn, the little town a])})eared to be aslee]) ; all the people 
she could find as she ])assed were a policeman leaning 
against a railing and i-eading a newspaper, two men work- 
ing at the roadway, and a maid-servant cleaning the win- 
dows of a first-floor parlor. She walked on, and pushed 
back the hair from her foreliead to let the cold sea breeze 
dispel this racking pain. But although tiie headache was 
a bad one, and although it was a most rare thing for her to 
know what a headache was, still it did not depress her. 
She walked on with an increasing gladness. This was a fine, 
real world ; there were no more processions of skeletons, or 
arctic mists, or fields covered with coffins. This was 
Worthing: there was the pier; these were most substantial 
and actual waves that came rolling in until they thundered 
over and rushed seething and hissing up the beach. More 
over, was there not a gathering sense of light somewhere — 
as if the day were opening and inclined to shine ? As she 
walked on in the direction of Lower Lancing a more spa- 
cious view of sea and sky opened out before her, and it 
a])})e.ared to her that awa}^ in the direction of Brighton the 
clouds seemed inclined to band up. And then, graduallv 
and here and there, faint gleams of a warmer light came 
shooting over from the east ; and in course of time, as she 
still followed the windings of the shore, the rising sun shone 
level along tlie sea, and the yellow brown waves, thougli 
their curved hollows were in shadows as they rolled on to 
the beach, had silver-gleaming crests, and trie wide stretches 
of retreating foam that gurgled and liissed down the sliingly 
slopes were a glare of cream white dazzling to tiie eyes. 

She walked quickly — and proudly. She had })hiyed a 
bold game, and she hoped that she might win. Kay, more, 
she was prepared to play it again. She would not shrink from 
any sacrifice. It was with no light lieairb that she had. under- 


YOLANDE. 


335 


taken this duty. And would he approve ? — that was always 
her secret thouglit. though generally she tried to banish all 
lenieinbrances of what was by^gone. Should he ever come 
to know of what she had done ? For it was her own plan- 
ning. It was not his suggestion at all ; probably, if he had 
thought of such a means of terrorism, he would not have 
dared to recommend it. But she had laid this plan ; and 
she watched her opportunity ; and she was glad that some 
days had elapsed before that 0])portunity had occurred, so 
that her mother had had time to become attached to her. And 
what if that once did not suffice ? Well, she was prepared 
to go on. It was only a headache (and even that was 
quietly lessening, for she had an elastic constitution, and was 
a most capable walker). What were a few headaches? But 
no, she did not think that much repitition of this experiment 
would be necessary ; she could not believe that any mother 
alive could look on and see her daughter poisoning herself 
to save her. 

The morning cleared and brightened. When she got 
to Lancing she struck inland by the quiet country ways ; a 
kind of gladness filled her. And if she should be successful, 
after all — if the thing that she had feared was to turn out a 
beautiful thing, if the rescue of this poor mother was to be 
her reward — what should she not owe him who had told 
her what her duty was ! He had not been afraid to tell 
her, although she was only a girl. Ah, and where was he 
now? Driven away into banishment, perhaps, by what 
had happened up there in the north, through her blindness 
and carelessness. Once or twice indeed, during these long 
evenings, she had followed out a curious fancy that perhaps 
his crossing the Monalea hills to catch the afternoon train 
at Kingussie had really some connection with her coming 
south. Had he wished to see that she was secure and 
guarded, now that she was embarked on an errand of his 
suggestion ? It pleased her to think of him being in the 
same train. Perhaps, in the cold gray morning at Euston 
Station, standing backward from the people, he had 
watched her get into the cab ; perhaps he had even fol- 
lowed in his own cab, and seen her enter the hotel? Why 
should he have hurried to catch that particular train ? Why 
should he have adopted that arduous route across the hills, 
unless it was that he wished to travel with her, and yet 
without her knowing it? But it was so strange he should 


886 


YOLAA^DE. 


make this long journey merely to see that she was safely 
lodged in her hotel. 

Kow she liad been studying this matter on one or two 
occasions, and letting her fancy ]day about it with a strange 
curiosity ; but it was on this particular morning, as she was 
entering the little village of Sompting, that a new light sud- 
denly dashed in on her. Vlfho was it who had told Lawrence 
& Lang of her being in London ? Who had explained to 
them what her business was? who had asked Mr. Lang to 
go to her hotel and see her? Was it ])Ossible, then, that 
he had journeyed to London in that same train, and gone 
direct to the lawyer’s othce, so that she should have their 
assistance ? He knew they were her father’s lawyers, for 
she herself had told him to whom she should apply in case 
of difficulty ; whereas, on the other hand, it was not possi- 
ble for her father to have written. Had he been guarding 
her, then, and watching over her all that time — jmrliaps 
even looking on ? And if looking on — Then, in a breath- 
less kind of way, she recalled the circumstances of her tak» 
ing her mother away. She had been disturbed and bewil- 
dered, no doubt ; still, had slie not the impression of some 
one darting by — some one who felled the man wdio had 
seized her arm, and then passed quickly Viv ? Surely surely 
it must have been he. Who else could liavc known ? Who 
else could have interfered ? Her heart grew wann with grati- 
tude toward him. Ah, there was the true friend, watch- 
ing over her, but still keeping back, and unrequited by a 
single wmi'd of thanks. She began to convince herself that 
this must have been so. She accused herself of blindness 
that she had not seen it before. And for how long had his 
guardianship continued? When had he gone away? 
Perliaps — 

Then her face grew pale. Perhaps he was even now in 
Worthing, still exercising this invisible care over her ? l*er- 
liaps she might meet him, by some accident, in the street? 
She stopped short in tlie road, apparently afraid to go on. 
For what would their meeting be, if such a meeting were to 
happen? — But no, it wmuld not happen — it should not hap- 
pen. Even if he were in Worthing (and she tried to get 
rid of the dreams and fancies begotten of this morning 
walk) he would not seek to see her ; he would avoid her 
rather ; he would know, as well as she, that it was not fit 
and proper that tney should meet. And why should he be 
in Worthing ? His guardianship there could be of no avail ; 


YOLANDE. 


she had nothing to fear in any direction where he could 
help. The more she calmly reviewed the possibilities of 
the case the more she considered it likely that he ha 1 indeed 
come to London with her ; that he had given instructions 
to the lawyers ; perhaps, even, that he had been present 
when she bore her motlier off ; but even if these things were 
so, by this time he must have left, perceiving tliat lie could 
do no more. And whither ? She had a kind of dim notion 
that he would not quickly return to Gress. But whither, 
then — whither? She saw him an outcast and a wanderer, 
she imagined him away in far places, and the morning 
seemed less cheerful now. Her face grew grave ; she 
walked firmly on. She was returning to her appointed 
task, and to any trials that might be in store for her in con- 
nection with it. 

She was getting near to Broadwater, when she saw 
along the road a pony-carriage coming quickly in her 
direction ; the next moment she perceived that her mother 
was in it, and that Jane (who had been brought up in the 
country) was driving. A few seconds sufficed to bring 
them to her ; and then the mother, who seemed much ex- 
cited, got out from the trap and caught her daughter by 
both shoulders, and stroked her hair and her face in a sort 
of delirium of joy. 

“ We have been driving everywhere in search of you — 
I was so afraid. Ah, you are alive and well, and beautiful 
as ever. ]My child, my child, I have not murdered you I ” 

“Hush mother,’’ said the girl, quite calmly. “It is a 
pity you got up so early. I came out for a walk, because 
my head was bad ; it is getting better now. I will drive 
you back if you like.” 

She drew the girl aside for a few 3 \ards, caressing her 
arm and stroking her fingers. 

“ My child, I ought to be ashamed and miserable; but 
to see you alive and well — I — I was in despair — 1 was afraid. 
But you need not fear any more, Yolande, you need not 
fear any more.” 

“I hope not, mother,” said Yolande, gravely, and she 
regarded her mother. “For I think I would rather die 
than go through again such a night as last night.” 

“ But ^mu need not fear — you need not fear,” said the 
other, pressing her hand. “Oh no ; when I saw you lying 
on the bed last night, then — then I seemed to know what I 


338 


YOLANDE. 


was. But you need not fear. No, never again will you 
have to poison yourself in order to shame me.” 

“ It was not to shame you mother ; it was to ask you 
not to take any more of that — that medicine.” 

“ You need not fear, Yolande, you need not fear,” she re 
peated eagerly. “ Oh no ; I have everything pre})ared now 
I will never again touch it ; you shall never have to sacri- 
fice yourslef like that — ” 

“ Well, I am glad of it, dear mother, for both oursakes,” 
Yolande said. “ I hope it will not cost you much suffer 
ing.” 

“ Oil no, it will not cost me much suffering,” said the 
mother, with a strange sort of smile. 

Something in the manner attracted her daughter’s atten- 
tion. 

“ Shall we go back ? ” she asked. 

“ But I wish you to understand, Yolande, that you need 
have no longer any fear — ” 

“Yon have promised, mother.” 

“ Yes ; but did I not promise before ? Ah, you — you, so 
young, so strong, so self-reliant — you can not tell how weak 
one can be. But now that is all over. This time I know. 
This time I can tell that I have tasted that poison for the 
last time — if there were twenty bottles standing by, it would 
not master.” 

“ You must nerve yourself, mother — ” 

“ Oh but I have made it secure in another way,” she 
said, with a curious smile. 

“ How, then ? ” 

“Well, what am I worth in the world? What is the 
value of my life? It is a wreck and worthless; to save it for 
a week, for a day, would I let you have one more headache, 
and be driven away into the country by myself like this? 
Ah, no, Yolande ; but now you are secure ; there will be no 
moi'2 of that. When I feel that I must break my promise 
again, when I am like to die with weakness and — and the 
craving, then, if there were twenty bottles standing by, you 
need not fear, tf living is not bearable, then, rather than 
you should do again what you did last night, I will kill my- 
self — and gladly.” 

Yolande regarded her with the same calm air. 

“And that is the end you have appointed for me 
mother ?” 


YOLANDE, 

Her mother was stu])ified for a second ; then she uttered 
a sliort, quick cry of terror. 

“ Yolaiide, what do you mean ? ” 

“ I think I have told you, mother, that I mean to follow 
vour example in all things — to the end, whatever it may be. 
Do not let us speak of it.” 

She put her hand on her mother's arm, and led her 
back to the pony-carriage. But the poor woman was tren.* 
bling violently. Tliis terrible tlireat had quite unnerved her. 
It had seemed to her easy — if tlie worst came to the worst, 
if she could control her craving no longer — that, sooner 
than her daughter slioulcl bo sacrificed, she herself should 
throw away this worthless fragment of existence that re- 
mained to her. And now ^L^olandc’s manner frightened iier. 
This easy wa}^ of escape was going to })i-odiice the direst of 
catastrophes. She regarded thegiid — who was pre-occupied 
and thoughtful, and who allowed Jane to continue to drive 
— all the way back ; and there was something in her look 
that sent the conviction to her mother’s heart that that had 
been no idle menace. 

When they got back to Worthing, Yolande set about 
the usual occupations of the day with her accustomed com- 
posure, and even with a measui'e of cheeidulness. She 
seemed to attach little ijuportance to the incident that had 
just haptpened ; and probably wished her mother to under- 
stand that she meant to see this thing througli, as she had 
begun it. But it was pitiable to see the remorse on tlie 
mother’s face wlien a slight contraction of Yolande’s brows 
told that from time to time her head still swam with pain. 

The first hamjier of game arrived from the north that 
day ; and it was with a curious interest that tlie mother 'who 
was never done wondering at her daughter’s knowledge and 
uccomjilishmeiits and opinions) listened to all that Yolande 
ijould tell her about the various birds and beasts. As yet 
the ptarmigan showed no signs of donning their winter 
plumage ; but the mountain hares here and there — especially 
about tlie legs — showed traces of white appearing under 
iieath the brownisli-gray. Both at the foot and at the top 
of the hamper was a thick bed of stag’s-horn moss (which 
grows in extraordinary luxuriance at Alt-nam-Ba), and Yo- 
lande guessed — and guessed correctly — that Duncan, who 
had observed her on one or two occasions bring home some 
of that moss, had fancied that tlie young lady would like to 
have some sent to her to the south. And she wondered 


310 


YOLANDE. 


whether there was any other part of the world where 
•people were so thoughtful and so kind, evdli to visitors who 
were almost strangers to them. 

At night, when Yolande went into the bedroom, she 
noticed that there was no bottle on the mantel-piece. 

“Where is it, mother ? ” she said. 

“ I have thrown it away. You need not fear now, 
Yolande,” her mother said. And then slie regarded her 
daughter. “ Don’t mind what I said this morning, child. 
It was foolish. If I can not' bear the suffering well, it can not 
be so hard a thing to die ; that must come if one waits.” 

“ You are not going to die, mother.” said Yolande, gently 
patting her on the shoulder. “ You are going to live ; for 
some day, as soon as you are strong enough, you and I are 
going to Nice, to drive all the way along to Genoa ; and I 
know all the prettiest places to stop at. But you must have 
courage and hope and determination. And you must get 
well quickly, mother ; for I should like to go away with 
you ; it is such a long, long time sence I smelt the lemon 
blossom in the air.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

A MESSAGE. 

As subsequent events were to prove, Yolande had, by 
this one bold stroke, achieved the victory she had set her 
heart upon. But as yet she could not know that. She 
could not tell that the frantic terror of the poor mother at 
the thought that she might have killed her only ctiild would 
leave an impression strong enough to be a sufficient safe- 
guard. Indeed, she could see no end to the undertaking on 
»4^hich she had entered ; but she was determined to prose- 
;ute that with unfailing patience, and with the hope in the 
/inal result ; and also, perhaps, with the consciousness that 
this immediate duty absorbed her from the consideration 
of other problems of her life. 

But while she tried to shut up all her cares and interests 
within this little town of Worthing — devising new amuse- 
ments and occupations, keeping her mother as much as poS‘ 


yOLAA’'DE. 


841 


sible in the open air, and lightly putting aside the poor 
woman’s remorse over the incidents of that critical niglit— 
there came to her reminders from the outer and farther 
world. Among these was the following letter from the 
Master of Lynn, which she read with strangely diverse emo- 
tions contending for mastery in lier mind : 

‘‘Station Hotel, Invehness, October 2. 

“ My dearest Tolande, — It is only this morning that 
I have got your address from Allt-nam-Ba ; and I write at 
once, though perliaps you will not care to be bothered with 
much correspondence just at present. Your father has told 
me what has taken you to the south, and indeed I had 
guessed something of the kind from the note you sent me 
when you were leaving. I hope you are well, and not over- 
troubled ; and when you have time I should be glad to have 
a line from you — though I shall not misconstrue your silence 
if you prefer to be silent. In fact, I probably should not 
write to you now but that your father is leaving Allt-nam- 
Ba shortly, and I suppose he will see you as soon as he goes 
south, and I think I am bound to give you some explanation 
as to how maUers stand. No doubt he will think it strange 
that I have rather kept out of his way, and very likely he 
will be surprised that my father has never called at the 
lodge, or shown any sign of civility, and so forth. Well, 
the plain truth is, dear Yolande, that I have quarrelled with 
illy father, if that can be called a quarrel which is all on one 
side — for I simply retire, on my part, and seek quiet in an 
Inverness hotel. The cause of the quarrel, or estrangement 
is that is he opposed to our marriage ; and he has been put up 
to oppose it, I imagine, chiefly by my aunt, tlje elderly and 
agreeable lady whom you will remember meeting at the 
Towers. I think I am bound in honor to let you know this ; 
not that it in the least affects you or me, as far as our mar- 
riage is concerned, for I am old enough to manage my own 
affairs; but in order to explain a discourtesy which may 
very naturally have offended your father, and also to ex- 
plain why I, feeling ashamed of the whole business, have 
rather kept back, and so failed to thank your father, as 
otherwise I should have done, for his kindness to me. Of 
course I knew very well, when we became engaged in Egypt, 
that my father, whose political opinions are of a fine old 
crusted order, would be rather aghast at my marrying the 


312 


YOLANDE. 


dfinghter of the Member of Slagpool ; but I felt sure that 
when he saw you and knew you, dear Yolande, lie would 
have no objection ; and indeed I did not anticipate that the 
eloquence of my venerated aunt would have deprived him 
of the use of his senses. One ought not to write so of one’s 
parent, I know ; but facts are facts ; and if you are driven 
out of your own home through the bigotry of an old 
man and the cattish temper of an old woman, and if 
you have the most angelic of sisters take to nagging at you 
with letters, and if you are forced into sweet seclusion of a 
hotel adjoining a railway station, then the humor of the 
whole affair begins to be apparent, and you may be inclined 
to call things by their real names. I have written to your 
father to say that he need not bother about either the dogs 
or horses ; when he has left I will run down to Allt-nam-Ba 
and see them sent off; but I have not told him why I am at 
present in Inverness; and I tell you, my dear Yolande, be- 
cause I think you ought to know exactly how matters stand. 
I should not be at all surprised to hear from you that you 
had imagined something of the state of the case ; for you 
must have wondered at their not asking you and your 
father to dinner, or something of the kind, after Polly taking 
you to the Towers when you first came north ; but, at ah 
events, this is how we are situated now, and I should be in- 
clined to make a joke of the whole affair if it were not that 
when I think of you I feel a little bit indignant. Of course 
it can not matter to you — not in the least. It is disagree- 
able, that is all. If dogs delight to bark and bite, it does 
not much matter so long as they keep their barking and 
biting among themselves. It is rather hard, certainly, when 
they take possession of your house, and turn you out into 
the street; especially when you have a lovely sister come 
and accuse you of having no higher ambition in life than 
playing billiards with commercial travellers. 

“ I shall hang on here, I expect, until our other tenants 
— they who have the forest — leaves for the south ; then I 
shall be able to make some final aiTangements with our 
agent here ; after which I shall consider myself free. You 
must tell me, dear Yolande, when and where you wish to 
see me. Of course I don’t wish to inconvenience or trouble 
you in any way — I shall leave it entirely in your hands as 
to what you would have me. do. Perhaps, if I go away for 
a while, the people at Lynn may come to their senses. 
Polly has been at them once or twice; she is a warm ally 


YOLANDE. 


343 


St yours; but, to tell you tlie truth, I would not have you 
made tlic subject of any appeal. No word of that kind 
sliall come from me. Most likely when the last of the 
])eo])le that the Grahams have witli them at Inverstwy have 
gone, Polly may go over to Lynn and establish herself 
there, and have a battle royal with my revered aunt. Of 
course I would not bother you with the details of this 
wretched family squabble if I did not think tliat some ex- 
]>lanation were due i>oth to you and to your father. 

‘‘I shall be glad to hear from you, if you are not too 
much occupied. Yours, affectionately, 

“Archie Leslie. 

“P.S. — I hope to be able to leave here about the 22d.” 

Her first impulse was to rush away at once and tele- 
graph to him, begging him not to come south; but a 
moment’s refiection showed her that was unnecessary. She 
re-read the letter ; there was nothing of the impetuosity of 
a lover in it, but rather a studied kindness, and also a reti- 
cence with regard to her present surroundings and occupa^ 
tions that she could not but respect. For she knew as well 
as any one that this matter concerned him too ; and she 
could even have forgiven a trace of apprehension on his 
pan, seeing that a young man about to marry is naturally 
curious about the new conditions that are to surround him. 
His silence on this point seemed part of the careful conside- 
ration that prevailed throughout this message to her. Then 
it was so clear that he would be ruled by her wishes. He 
was not coming to claim her by the right he had acquired. 
She could put away this letter for future consideration, as 
rhe had for the moment ])ut aside her engagement ring. 
SYhile she was first reading it, some strange fancies and 
feelings had held possession of her — a quick contrition, a 
desire to tell him everything, and so release herself from 
this bond, a remonstrance with herself, and a vague kind of 
(lope that she might make atonement by a life-long devo- 
tion to him, after this first duty to her mother had been 
accomplished. But these conflicting resolves she forced 
lierself to discard. She would not even answer this letter 
now. There was no hurry. He would not come to 
Worthing if she did not wish it. And was it not fortu- 
nate that she could turn aside from unavailing regrets, and 
from irresolute means and purposes, to the actual needs of 
the moment? She calmly put the letter in her pocket, and 


344 


YOLANDE. 


went away to see whetlier her mother were not ready for 
her morning drive. And now it had come to pass that 
whenever Yolande drew near there was a look of affection 
and gratitude in this poor woman’s eyes that made the 
girl’s heart glad. 

Day after day passed the weather happened to be fine, 
and tlieir exploration of the surrounding country was un- 
wearied. The castles of Arundel and Bramber, the pai-ks 
of Augmering and Bad worth, Harrow Hill, Amberley Wild 
Brook, Sullington, Washington, Storrington, Ashington — ■ 
they knew them all ; and tliey had so educated the wdse 
old pony that, when Jane was not with them, and they 
were walking along by the h edgeways or climbing a hill, 
they could safely leave him and the pony-carriage far be- 
hind them, knowing that he would come up at his leisure, 
keeping his own side of the road, and refusing to be 
tempted by the greenest of way-side patches. Yolande, 
both at home and abroad, was always on the watch, and 
carefully concealed the fact. But now she wms beginning 
less and less to fear, and more and more to hope ; nay, at 
times, and rather in spite of herself, a joyful conviction 
would rest upon her that she had already succ'feeded. Four 
days after that relapse, a desperate fit of depression over- 
took the poor woman ; but she bravely fought through it. 

“ You need not fear this time, Yolande,” she would say, 
with a sad smile. “ I said that once before, but I did not 
know then. I had not seen you lying on the bed — perhaps 
dying, as I thought. You shall have no more headaches 
through me.” 

“ Ah, dear mother,” said Yolande, “ in a little time you 
wdll not even think of such things. You will have forgotten 
them. It will be all like a dream to you,” 

“ Yes, like a dream — like a dream,” the other said, ab- 
sently. “ It was in a dream that you came tome. I could 
not understand — I heard you, but I could not understand. 
And then it seemed that you were leading me away, but I 
scarcely knew who you were. And the evening in the hotel, 
when you were showing me your things, I could scarcely 
believe it all ; and when you said you would get me a dress- 
ing-bag, I asked myself why I should take that from a stran 
ger. You were so new to me — and tall — and so beautiful 
— it was a kind of wonder — I could not think you were in- 
deed my own daughter, but a kind of angel, and I was glad 
to follow you.” 


YOLANDE, 


345 


“ Well, I carried you off,” said Yolande, plainly (for slio 
did not like to encourage fantasy). “ There is no mistake 
about it ; aud I shall not let you go back to those friends of 
yours, who were not at all good friends to you ; that also is 
quite certain.” 

“ Oh, no, no ? ” she would say, grasping the girl’s hand. 
“ I am not going back — never, never, to that house ! You 
med not fear now, Yolande.” 

It has already been mentioned that this poor woman 
was greatly astonished that Yolande should know so much, 
and should have seen so much, and read so many different 
tilings. And this proved to be a field of quite unlimited 
interest ; for there was not a single opinion or experience of 
the girl that she did not regard with a strange fascination 
and sympathy. Whether Yolande was relating to her leg- 
endary stories of Brittany, of which she knew a good many, 
or describing the lonely streets of Pompeii, or telling her of 
the extraordinary clearness of the atmosphere in Washington 
(the physical atmosphere, that is)., she listened with a kind 
of wonder, and with the keenest curiosity to know more and 
more of this young life that had grown up apart from hers. 
And then Yolande so far wandered from the path of virtue 
— as laid down by her father — as sometimes to read aloud 
in French ; and vv'hile slie frequently halted and stumbled in 
reading aloud in Englisli, there never was any stumbling, 
but rather a touch of pride, when she was pronouncing 
such sonorous line as this — 

“ La vaste mere murmure autour de son cercueil,” 

and it was strange to the poor mother that her daughter 
should be more at home in reading French than reading 
English. She would ask the minutest questions — about Yo- 
lande’s life at the Chateau, about her life on board ship 
during her various voyages, about her experiences in those 
mountain solitudes of the north. Her anxiety to be always 
in the society of her daughter was insatiable ; she could 
scarcely bear to have her out of sight. And when Lawrence 
& Lang sent her, in the course of time, her usual allowance 
of money, her joy was extreme. For now, whenever she 
and Yolande went out, she scanned the shop windows with 
an eager interest, and always she was buying this, that, or 
the other trinket, or bit of pretty-colored silk, or something 
of the kind for the girl to wear. Yolande had rather severe 


346 


YOLANDE. 


notions in the way of [personal adornment ; but she was well 
content to put a bit of color round her neck or an additional 
silver hoop round her wrist when she saw the pleasure in 
her mother’s eyes. 

At length she felt justified in sending the following let- 
ter to her father : 


WoRTUiNG, October 12. 

“ My dear Papa, — I intend this to reach you before 
you leave Allt-nam-13a, because it carries good news, and I 
know you have been anxious. I tliink every thing goes Avell 
— sometimes I am quite sure of it — sometimes I look for«mrd 
to such a bright future. It has been a great struggle and 
pain (but not to me ; please do not speak of me at all in 
your letters, because that is nothing at all), but I have not 
so much fear now. Perhaps it is too soon to be certain ; 
but I can not explain to you in a letter what it is that gives 
me such hope, that drives away what reason, suggests, and 
compels me to think that all will be well. Partly it is my 
mother’s look. There is an assurance in it of lier determi- 
nation — of her feeling that all is safe now ; again and again 
she says to me, “ I have been in a dream, but now I am 
come out of it. You need not fear now.” Mr. Melville said 
I was not to be too sanguine, and always to be watchful ; 
and I try to be that ; but I can not fight against the joyful 
conviction that my mother is now safe from that thing. 
Only she is so weak and ill yet — she tries to be brave and 
cheerful, to give me comfort ; but she suffers. Dear ])apa, 
it is madness that you should reproach yourself for doing 
nothing, and propose to take us to the Mediterranean. ISTo, 
no ; it will not do at all. My mother is too weak yet to go 
anywhere ; when she is well enough to go I will take her ; 
but 1 must take her alone ; she is now used to me ; there 
must be no such excitement as would exist if you were to 
come for us. . I am very thankful to Mr. Shortlands that 
you are going to Dalescroft ; and I liope you will find charm- 
ing people at his house, and also that the shooting is good. 
Dear papa, I hojie you will be able to go over to Slag- 
pool while you are in the north; and perhaps you miglit 
give an address or deliver a lecture — there are many of the 
members doing that now, as I see -by the newspapers and 
you ewe something to your constituents for not grumbling 
about your going to Egypt. 


yOLAXDE, 


C* 4 

0‘t i 


“ I hope everything has been comfortable at the lodge 
since I left ; but that I am sure of, for Mrs. Bell would take 
care. You must buy her something very pretty when you 
get to Inverness, and send it to lier as from you and me 
together — something very pretty indeed, papa, for she was 
very kind to me, and I would not have her fancy that one 
forgets. Mr. Leslie says in a letter that lie will see to the 
ponies and dogs being sent off, so tliat you need have no 
trouble ; he is at the Station Hotel, as probably you know, 
if you wish to call and thank him. 1 rememlier Duncan 
saying that when the dogs were going he would take them 
over the hills to Kingussie, and go with them by the train 
as far as Perth, where he has relatives, and there he could 
see that the dogs had water given them in the morning. 
But you will yourselves take them, jierhaps, from Inver- 
ness ? Another small matter, dear papa, if you do not 
mind the trouble, is this — would you ask some one to pack 
up for me and send here the boards and drying-paper and 
hand-press that I had for the wild flowers? We go much 
into the country here, and have plenty of time in the even- 
ing ; and my mother is so much interested in any '’pursuit 
of mine that this would be an additional means of amusing 
her. You do not say w'hether you have heard anything 
farther of Mr. Melville. 

“ Do not think I am sad, or alone, or repining, Oh no ; I 
am very well; and I am very happy when I see my mother 
pleased with me. We do a hundred things — examine the 
shop windows, walk on the pier or along the promenade, 
or we drive to different places in the country, and some- 
times we have lunch at the old-fashioned inns, and make 
the acquaintance of the people — so good-natured they are, 
and well pleased with their own importance ; but I do not 
understand them always, and my mother laughs. AYe call 
the pony Bertrand du Guesclin ; I do not remember how it 
happened ; but, at all events, he is not as adventurous as 
the Connetable : he is too wise to run any risks. But wJmi 
I am quite sure^ and if my mother is well enough for the 
fatigue of the voyage, I think I will take her to the south 
of France, and then along the Rivera, for I fear the winter 
here, and she so delicate. Dear i)apa, you say I am not to 
mind the expense ; very well, you see I am profiting by your 
mands. In the meantime I woula not dare. I try to keep 
down my excitement ; we amuse ourselves with the shops 
with the driving, and what not ; it is all simple, pleasant^ 


348 YOLANDE. 

and I wnit for the return of her strength. Yes, I can see 
she is much depressed sometimes ; and then it is that slie 
has been accustomed to fly for relief to tlie medicines; but 
now I think that is over, and the best to be looked forward 
to. Yes, ill spite of caution, in spite .of reason, I am already 
almost assured. There is something in lier manner toward 
me that convinces me; there is a sympathy which has 
grown up ; she looks at me as she does not look at any one 
else, and I understand. It is this that convinces me. 

“ Will you give a farewell gift to each of the servants, 
besides their wages? I think they deserve it; always they 
helped me greatly, and were so willing and obliging, in- 
stead of taking advantage of my ignorance. I would not 
have them think that I did not recognize it, and was un- 
grateful. And please^ papa, get something very pretty for 
Mrs. Bell. I do not know what: something she could be 
proud to show to Mr. Melville would probably please her 
best. Write to me when you get to Dalescourt. 

“Your affectionate daughter, Yolande.” 

There is no doubt that Yolande made these re]>eated 
references to Mr. Melville with the vague expectation of 
learning that perhaps he had returned to Gress. But if 
that was her impression she was speedily undeceived. The 
very next morning, as she went down into the small lobby, 
she saw something white in the letter-box of the door. The 
bell had not been rung, so that the servant-maid had not 
taken the letter out. Yolande did so, and saw that it was 
addressed to herself — in a handwriting that she instantly 
recognized. AVith trembling fingers she hastily broke open 
the envelope, and then read these words, written in pencil 
across a sheet of note-paper : 

“You have done well. You will succeed. But be 
patient. Good-by. J. M.” 

She stood still — bewildered — her heart beating quickly. 
Had he been there all the time, then ? — always near her, 
watching her, guarding lier, observing the progress of the 
experiment he had himself suggested ? And now whither 
had he gone — without a word of thanks and gratitude ? Her 
mother was coming down the stairs. She quickly concealed 
the letter, and turned to meet her. In the dusk of this 
lobby the mother observed nothing strange or unusual in 
the look of her daughter’s face. 


YOLANDF 


CHAPTER XLII. 

A LAST lifTERVENTKm 

It has already been said of Mrs. Graham, as of her 
brother, that she was not altogether mercenary.’ She had 
a certain share of sentiment in her composition. It is true, 
she had summarily stamped out the Master’s boyisli fancies 
with regard to Janet Stewart; but then, on the other liand 
(wlien the danger to the estates of Lynn was warded off), 
she could afford to cliei*ish those verses to Shena Van with 
a j^neaking fondness. Xay, more tlian tliat, she paid them 
the compliment of imitation — unknown to her Imsband and 
everybody else ; and it may be worth while to print this, 
her sole and only literary effort, if only to show that, just 
as seamstresses imagine the highest social circles to be the 
realm of true romance, and like to be told of tlie woes and 
joys of liigli-born ladies, so this pretty Mrs. Graliam, being 
tlie only daughter of a nobleman, when casting about for a 
properly sentimental situation, must needs get right down 
to the bottom of the social ladder, and think it fine to speak 
of herself as a sailor’s lass. One small touch of reality re- 
mained — the hero she named Jirn. Kut here are the versef 
to speak for themselves : 

“ I care not a fig for your brag, you girls 
And dames of high degree, 

Or for all your silks and satins and pearls, 

As fine as fine may be ; 

For I’ll be as ricli as dukes and earls 
When my J im comes home from sea. 

“ It’s in Portsmouth town that I kiiow a lane, 

And a small house jolly and free, 

That’s sheltered well from the wind and the rain, 

And as snug as snug can be ; 

And it’s there that we’ll be sitting again 
When my Jim comes home from sea. 

Twas a fine brave sight when the yards were 
manned. 

Though my eyes could scarcely see ; 

It’s a long, long sail to the Rio Grand,’ 

And a long, long waiting for me ; ^ 

' But I’ll envy not any one in the land 
When my Jim comes home from sea. 


350 


YOLANDE. 


“ So here’s to your health, you high bom girls 
Aud ladies of great degree, 

And I hope you’ll all be married to earls 
As proud as proud may be; 

But I wouldn’t give fourpence for all your pearls 
When my Jim comes home from sea.” 

Of course she carefully concealed these verses — especially 
from her husband, who would have led her a sad life if ho 
had found them and discovered the authorstiip ; and they 
never attained to the digrnity of type in the Iiiverness Cour- 
ier^ where the lines to Shena Yan had appeared ; but all the 
same, pretty Mrs. Graham regarded them with a certain 
pleasure, and rather approved of the independence of the 
Portsmouth young lady, although she had a vague impres- 
sion that she might not be quite the proper sort of guest to 
ask to Inverstory. 

xsTow he ranger and dismay over the possible breaking 
down of the scheme which she had so carefully formed and 
tended were due to various causes, and did not simply arise 
from a wish that the Master of Lynn should marry a rich 
wife. It was her project, for one thing, and she had a cer- 
tain sentimental fondness in regarding it. Had 'she not 
wrought for it, too, and striven for it? Was it for nothing 
that she had trudged through the dust of the Merhadj bazaars, 
and fought with cockroaches in her cabin, and grasped with 
the Egyptian heat all diose sweltering afternoons? She be- 
gan to consider herself illtreated, and did not know which 
to complain of the more — her brother’s indifference or her 
father’s obstinacy. Then she could get no sort of sympathy 
from her husband. lie only laughed, and went away to look 
after his pheasants. Moreover, she knew very well that 
this present condition of affairs could not last. The Master’s 
illtemper would increase rather than abate. Yolande would 
grow accustomed to his neglect of her. Perhaps Mr. Winter- 
bourne would interfere, and finally put an end to tliat pretty 
dream she had dreamed about as they went sailing down the 
Mediterranean. 

Accordingly she determined to make one more effort. 
If she should not be able to coax Lord Lynn into a more 
complaisant frame of mind, at least she should go on to Allt- 
nam-Ba and make matters as pleasant as possible with Mr. 
Winterbourne before he left. The former part of her en- 
deavor, indeed, she speedily found to be hopeless. She had 
no sooner arrived at the Towers than she^^sought out her fa- 


YOLANDE. 


351 


ther and begged liim to be less obdurate ; but when, as she was 
putting forward Corrievreak as her cliief argument, she was 
met by her father s affixing to Coiricvreak, or rather prefix- 
ing to it, a solitary and emphatic word — a word that was en- 
tirely out of place, too, as applied to a sanctuary — she knew it 
was all over. Lord Lynn sometimes used violent language, 
for he was a hot-tempered man, but not language of that 
sort; and when she heard him utter that dreadful wish 
about such a sacred thing as the sanctuaiy of a deer forest, 
she felt it was needless to continue farther. 

“ Very well papa,” said she, “ I have done my best. It 
is not my affair. Only everything might have been made 
so }>}casant for us all.” 

“ Yes, and for the Slagpool Radicals,” her father said, 
contemptuously. “ I suppose they would land at ’Foyers 
with banners, and have picnics in the forest.” 

“ At all events, you must remember this, papa,” said Mrs. 
Graham, with some sharpness, “ that Archie is a gentleman. 
He is pledged to mari'y Miss Winterbourne, and marry her 
he will.” 

“ Let liirn, and welcome ! ” said this short, stout, thick 
person with the bushy eyebrows and angry eyes. “ lie may 
marry the dairy-maid if he likes. I sup])ose the young gen- 
tleman has a right to his own tastes. But I say he shall 
not bring his low acquaintances about this house while I am 
alive.” 

Mrs. Graham herself had a touch of a family temper, and 
for a second or two her face turned quite pale with anger, 
and when she spoke it v^as in a kind of forced and breath- 
iess way* 

“ I don’t know what you mean. Who are low acquain- 
tances? Yolande Winterbourne is my friend. She is fit 
to rnaiT}" any one in the land, I care not what his rank is, 
and — and I will not have such things s.'iid. She is my friend. 
Low acquaintances! If it comes to that, it was I who in- 
troduced Archie to Mr. Winterbourne ; and — and this is 
what I know about them, that if they are not fit to — to be l e- 
ceived at Lynn, then neither am I.” 

And with that she walked calmly (but still with her face 
rather pale) out of the room, and shut the door behind her ; 
and then went away and sought out her own dressing-room 
of former days, and locked herself in there and had a good 
Cl’}'. Slie did feel injured. She was doing her best, ami 
this was what she got for it. But she was a courageoiis 


YOLANDE. 


^;>2 

little woman, and presently she had dried her eyes and aiv 
ranged her dress for going out ; then she rang, and sent a 
message to the stables to get the dog-cart ready, for that 
slie wanted to drive to Allt-nara-Ba. 

By-and-by she was driving along by the side of the pret- 
ty loch under the great hills ; and she was comforting her- 
self with more cheerful reflections. 

“ It is no matter,” she was saying to herself. “ If only 
Mr. Winterbourne remains in good humor, everything will 
go right. When Archie is married he will be rich enough 
to have a home where he pleases. I suppose Jim wouldn’t 
have them always with us ? — though it would be nice to 
have Yolande in the house, especially in the long winter 
montlis. But Archie could build a house for himself, and 
sell it when he no longer wanted it. The country about 
Loch Eil would please Yolande. I wonder if Archie could 
get a piece of land anywhere near Fassiefern ? That would 
be handy for having a yacht, too, and of course they will 
have a yacht. Or vdiy shouldn’t he merely rent a house — 
one of those up Glen Urquhart, if Only the shooting was 
a little better ? or over Glen Spean way, if Lochaber isn’t 
a little too wild for Yolande? or perhaps they might get 
a place in Glengarry, for Yolande is so fond of wandering 
through woods. No doubt Archie exaggerated that affair 
about Yolande’s mother; in any case it, could easily be ar- 
ranged ; other families have done so, and everything gone 
on as usual. Then if they had a town house we might all 
go to the Caledonian Ball together. Archie looks so well 
in the kilt, and Yolande might go as Flora Macdonald.” 

She drove quickly along the loch-side, but moderated 
her pace when she reached the rough mountain-road lead- 
ing up the glen, for she knew she would not mend matters 
by letting down one of her father’s horses. And as she 
approached Allt-nam-Ba a chill struck her heart — those pre- 
parations for departure were so ominous. Duncan was in 
front of the body, giving the rifles and guns their last rub 
with oil before putting them into the case ; boxes of empty 
soda-v/ater bottles had been hauled out by the women-folk 
for the men to screw up ; a cart with its shafts resting on 
the ground stood outside the coach-house ; and various fig- 
ures went hurrying this way and that. And no sooner had 
Mrs. Graham driven up and got down from the dog-cart 
than her quick eye espied a tall black-bearded man, who, 
from natural shyness — or perhaps he wanted to have a look 


YdLANDE. 


853 


at Duncan's gun-rack — had retreated into the bothy ; and 
so, instead of going into the house, she quickly followed 
him into the wide, low-roofed apartment, which smelled 
considerably of tobacco smoke. 

“ Isn’t your name Angus ? ” said she, 

“Yes, ma’am,” said he, with a very large smile that 
showed he recognized her. 

“ I suppose Mr. Macpherson has sent you about the in- 
ventory ? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Have you been over the house yet ? ” 

“No, ma’am; I have just come out with the empty cart 
from, Inverfariguig.” 

“ Well, then, Angus, you need not go over the house. 
I don’t want the gentlemen bothered. Go back and tell 
Mr. Macpherson I said so.” 

“ There was £7 of breakages with the last tenant, ma’- 
am,” said he, very respectfully. 

“Never mind,” said she; and she took out her purse 
and got hold of a sovereign. “ Go back at once ; and. if 
you have to sleep at Whitebridge that will pay the cost; 
or you may get a lift in the mail cart. My brother is in In- 
verness, isn’t he? ” 

“ Yes, ma’am.” 

“ Then you can go to him, and tell him I said there was 
to be no going over the inventory. This tenant is a friend 
of mine. You go to my brother when you get to Inverness, 
and he will explain to Mr. Macpherson. Now good-by, 
Angus ; ” and she shook hands with him, as is the custom 
in that part of the country, and went. 

The arrival a stranger at Allt-nam-Ba was such an un- 
ual circumstance that when she went up to door of the lodge 
she found both Mr. Winterbourne and John Shortlands 
awaiting her, they having seen her drive up the glen ; and 
she explained that she had been leaving a message with 
one of the men. 

“ I heard you Avere leaving, Mr. Winterbourne,” said 
she, with one of her most charming smiles, when they had 
got into the drawing room, “and I could not let you go 
away without coming to say good-by. Both my husband 
and I expected to have seen much more of you this au- 
tumn ; but you can see for yourself what it is in the High- 
lands — ever^ household is so wrapped up in its own affairs 
that there is scarcely any tine for visiting. If Inverstroy 

\ 


354 


VOLAiV£)K 




had come to Allt-iiam-Ba, Inverstroy would have found Allt- 
iiam-Ba away shooting on the hill, and vice versa! and I 
suppose that is why old-fashioned people like my father 
have almost given up the tradition of visiting. When do 
you go ? ” ^ 

“ Well, if we are all packed and ready, I suppose this 
afternoon ; then we can pass the night at Foyers, and go on 
to Inverness in the morning.” 

“But if I had known I could have brought some of the 
j^eople from the Towers to help you. My father would 
have been delighted.” 

“ She said it without a blush ; perhaps it was only a 
slip of the tongue. 

“ Do you think Mrs. Bell would suffer any interference ? ” 
said John Shortlands, with a laugh. “I can tell you, my 
dear Mrs. Graham, that she rules us with a rod of iron — 
though we’re not supposed to know it.” 

“And how is dear Yolande? ” said Mrs. Graham. 

“ She is very well,” Yulande’s father said, instantly 
lowering his eyes, and becoming nervous and fidgety. 

“ 1 heard something of what had called her away to 
the south — at least I jn'esumed that was the reason,” con- 
tinued Mrs. Graham, forcing herself to attack this danger- 
ous topic in order to show that, in her estimation at least 
nothing too important had occurred. “ Of course one sym- 
pathizes with her. I hope you have had good news from 
her ?” 

“ Oh yes,” said he hastily. “ Oh yes. I had a letter 
last night. Yolande is very well.” 

“Archie,” continued Mrs. Graham, thinking enough had 
been said on that point, “ is at Inverness. I declare the 
way those lawyers fight over trifles is })erfectly absurd. 
And I confess,” she added, with a demure smile, “ that the 
owners of deer forests are not much better. Of course they 
always tell me I don’t know, that it is my ignorance ; but 
to find people quarrelling about the line the march should 
take — when an acre of the ground wouldn’t give grazii\g 
fora sheep — seems stupid enough. Well, now, Mr. Win- 
terbourne, may I venture to ask how you found the shoot- 
ing ? ” 

“ Oh, excellent — excellent,” said ho, brightly, for he also 
was gkid to get away from that other topic. “ We have 
not found as many deer coming about as we expected; iiut 


YOLANDE, 


:^55 

otherwise the place hae turned out everything that could be 
wished.” 

“ I am glad of that,” said she, “ for I know Archie had 
qualms about inducing you to take the shooting. I remem- 
ber very well, on board ship, he used to think it was a risky 
thing. Supposing the place had not turned out well, then 
you might have felt that — that — ” 

“ No, no, my dear Mrs. Graham,” said he, with a smile, 
“ caveat empior. I knew I was taking the place with the 
usual attending risks ; I should not have blamed your bro- 
ther if we had had a bad year.” 

She was just on the point of asking him whether he 
liked Alt-nam-Ba well enough to come back again, but she 
thought it w'as too dangerous. She had no means of know- 
ing what he thought of Lord Lynn’s marked unncighbor- 
liness ; and she deemed it more prudent to go on talking of 
general subjects, in her light and cheerful way, and always 
on the assumption that ^wo families were on friendly terms, 
and that Yolande’s future home would be in the Highlands. 
At length she said must be going. 

“ I would ask you to stay to lunch,” said Mr. Winter- 
bourne, “but I dare say you know what lunch is likely to be 
on the day of leaving a shooting-box — ” 

“ Dear me ! ” said she, in tones of vexation. 

“ Why did they not think of that at the Towers ? They 
might have saved you a great deal of bother that way ; 
but they have got into an old fashioned groove there.” 

“ At the same time, my dear Mrs. Graham,” said Mr. 
Winterbourne, with great courtesy, “ if you like to take the 
risk, I dare say Mrs. Bell can find you something; and we 
have not often the chance of entertaining any one at Allt- 
nara-Ba. Will you take pity on us? Will you sit in Yo- 
lande’s place ? The house has been rather empty since she 
left.” 

“ I should like it of all things,” said pretty IMrs. Graham, 
taking off her hat and gloves and putting them on the sofa, 
“ for I feel that I haven’t given you half the messages I 
wish you to take to dear Yolande. And you must let me 
have her address, so that Jim can send her a haunch of 
venison at Christmas.” 

“ 1 am afraid that would not be of much use, thank you,” 
said he ; “ for I hope by that time, if all goes well, that Yo- 
iande will be away in the south of Europe.” 

“ Archie is going south also,” said Mrs. Graham pleag- 


356 


VOLANDE. 


antly. There is little doing here in the winter. After he 
has made all the arrangements with papa’s agents in Inver- 
ness, then he will be off to the south too. Where is Yo- 
lande likely to be ? ” 

“Well I don’t exactly know,” said Mr. Winterbourne, 
with a kind of anxious evasion. “ But she will write to 
you. Oh yes, I will tell her to write to you. She is — she 
is much occupied at present — and — and perhaps she has not 
much time. But Yolande does not forget her friends.” 

“ She shall not forget me for I won’t let her,” said Mrs. 
Graham, blithely. “If she should try, I will come and fer- 
ret her out, and give her a proper scolding. But I don’t 
think it will be needed.” 

The luncheon, frugal as it was, proved to be a very pleas- 
ant affair, for the two men-folk were glad to have the table 
brightened by the unusual presence.of a lady guest, who was, 
moreover, very pretty and talkative and cheerful ; while on 
the other hand, Mrs. Graham, having .all her wits about her, 
very speedily .assured herself that Yolande’s father was 
leaving Allt-nam-Ba in no dudgeon whatever ; and also that, 
although he seemed to consider Yolande as at present set 
apart for some special duty, and not to be interfered with 
by any suggestions of future meetings or arrangements, he 
appeared to take it for granted that ultimately she would 
live in the Higlilands. Mrs. Graham convinced herself that 
all was well, and she was a skilful flatterer, and could use 
her eyes ; and altogether this was a very merry and agree- 
able luncheon party. Before she finally rose to go she had 
got Y'olande’s address, and had undertaken to write to her. 

And then she pleased Mr. Winterbourne very much by 
asking to see Mrs. Bell ; .and she equally ple.ased Mrs. Bell 
by some cleverly turned compliments, and by repe.ating 
wdiat the gentlemen had said about their obligations to her. 
In good truth Mrs. Bell needed some such comfort. She 
was sadly broken down. When Mrs. Graham asked her 
about Mr. Melville, tears rose unbidden to the old dame’s 
eyes, and she had furtively to wipe them away with her 
handkerchief while pretending to look out of the window. 

“ lie has written two or three times to the young lad 
Dalrymple,” said she, with just one suppressed sob; “ and 
all about they brats o’ bairns, as if he w.asna in mair con- 
sideration in people’s minds than a wheon useless lads and 
lassies. And only a message or two to me, about this 
family or the other family — the deil take them, that h« 


YOLANDE. 


357 


should bother his head about their crofts and their cows 
and their seed-corn ! And just as he might be having his 
ain back again — to gang awa’ like that, without a word o’ 
an address. I jalouse it’s America — ay, I’m thinking it’s 
America, for there they have the electric things he was aye 
speaking o’ ; and he was a curious man, that wanted to ken 
everything. I wonder what the Almichty was about when 
He put it into people’s lieads to get fire out o’ running 
water! They might hae been content as they were; and 
Mr. Melville would liae been better occupit in planting his 
ain hill-sides — as a’ tlie lairds are doing nowadays — than in 
running frae ae American town to anither wi’ his boxes o’ 
steel springs and tilings.” 

“ But he is sure to write to you, Mrs. Bell,” said Mrs. 
Graham. 

“ I just canna boar to think o’t,” said the older woman, 
in a kind of despair. “I hope he didna leave because he 
thought I would be an encumbrance on him. I hae mair 
sense than that. But he’s a proud man, though Ishouldna 
say it — Ay, and the poor lad without a home — and with- 
out the land that belongs to him — ” 

The good old lady found this topic too much for her, 
and she was retiring with an old-fashioned courtesy, when 
Mrs. Graham shook hands wnth her in the most friendly 
manner; and assured her that if any tidings of Mr. Melville 
came to Inverstroy (as was almost certain), she would 
write at once. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

LOOSENED CHAINS. 

“ ITou have done well — yoit will succeed.'^ Yolande read 
and again read that brief note ; pondering over it in secret, 
and always wnth an increasing joy. He had seen ; he had 
approved. And now, when slie was walking about the 
streets of Worthing Avith her mother, she found a strange 
interest in guessing as to which of those houses he had lived 
in while, as she assured herself, he was keeping that invisible 
guard over her. Was it this one, or that ; or perhaps the 


858 


YOLANDE. 


hotel at the corner? Had he been standing at the window 
tliere, and regarding her as she passed unconscious ? Had lie 
seen her drive by in the little pony-carriage ? Had he watched 
her go along the pier, liiinself standing somewhere out 
of tlie way ? Slie had no longer any doubt that it was lie who 
had gone to the office of Lawrence Lang on the morning of 
lier arrival in London ; she was certain he must have been 
close by v/lieii she went to fetch her mother on that fateful 
evening. 

And indeed, as time went on, it became more and mori* 
certain that that forgetfulness to which she had looked for- 
ward was still far from her ; and now she began to regard 
with a kind of dismay the prospect of the Master of Lynn 
coming to claim her. She knew it was her duty to become 
his wife — that had been arranged and a])proved by her fa- 
ther ; she had herself pledged away her future ; and she had 
no right of appeal. She reminded herself of these facts a 
hundred times, and argued with herself ; she strove to 
banish those imaginings about one who ouglit henceforth to 
be as one dead to her; and strove also to prove to herself 
that if she did what was right, unhappiness could not be 
the result ; but all the time there was growing up in her 
heart a fear — nay, almost a conviction — that this marriage 
was not possible. She turned away her eyes and would 
not regard it; but this conviction pi-essed itself in on her 
whether she would or no. And then she would engage 
herself with a desperate assiduity in the trivial details of 
their daily life there, and try to gain forgetfulness that 
way. 

This was the letter she wrote to the Master of Lynn, in 
reply to his. It cost her some trouble, and also here and 
there some qualm of self-reproach ; for she could not but 
know that she was not telling the whole truth : 

Worthing, Wednesday aflernoon. 

“ Dear Archie, — I am exceedingly grieved to hear of 
year trouble with your family, and also to think that I am 
the cause of it. It seems so great a pity, and all the more 
that, in the present circumstances, it is so unnecessary. You 
will understand from my papa’s letter that the duty I have 
undertaken is surely before any other ; and that one’s per- 
sonal wishes must be ]nit aside, when it is a question of what 
a daughter owes to her mother. And to think there should 
be trouble and dissension now over what must in any case 


YOLANDE, 


359 


be so remote — that seems a very painful and unnecessary 
thing ; and surely, dear Archie, you can can do something 
to restore yourself to your ordinary position with regard tc 
your family. Do you think it is pleasant to me to think 
that I am the cause of a quarrel? And to think also that 
this quarrel might be continued in the future ? But the fu- 
ture is so uncertain now in these new circumstances that I 
would pray you not to think of it, but to leave it aside, and 
become good friends with your family. And how, you 
may ask? Well, I would consider our engagement at an 
end for the present ; let it be as nothing ; you will go back 
to Lynn ; I arn here, in tlie position that I can not go 
from ; let the future have what it may in store, it will be 
lime to consider afterwards. Pray believe me, dear Archie, 
it is not in anger that I write, or any resentment ; for I uii- 
dei-stand well tliat my papa^s politics are not agi-eeable to 
every one; and I have heard of differences, in families on 
smaller matters than tliat. And I ]n*ay you to believe tliat 
neither my father nor myself was sensible of any discourtesy 
— no, surely every one has the right to clioose his friends as 
he pleases ; nor could one expect one’s neighbors to alter 
their habits of living, ])erhaps, and be at the trouble of en- 
tertaining strangers. No, there is neither resentment nor 
anger in my mind ; but only a wish that you should be re- 
conciled to your friends; and this is an easy way. It would 
leave you and me free for the time that might be necesary ; 
you can go back to Lynn, where your proper jdace is ; and 
1 can give myself up to my mother, without other thoughts. 
Will you ask Mrs. Graham if that is not the wisest plan ? — 
I am sure she must be distressed at the thought of your be- 
ino; estranged from your relatives; and I know she will 
think it a pity to have so much trouble about what must in 
any case be so distant. For, to tell you the truth, dear 
Archie, I can not leave to any one else what I have now un- 
dertaken ; and it may be years of attention and service that 
are wanted ; and why should you wait and wait, and always 
with the constraint of a family quarrel around you ? For 
myself, I already look at my position that way. I have 
put aside my engagement ring. I have given myself over 
to the one who has most claims on me ; and I am proud to 
think that I may have been of a little service already. Will 
you consent, dear Archie? Then we shall both be free ; and 
the future must be left to itself. 

“ It was so very kind of you to look after the sending 


360 


YOLA^DE. 


away of the dogs and ponies from AlIt-nam-Ba ! my papa 
has written to me from Dalescroft about it ; and was very 
'grateful to you. No, I will not tell liim anything of what 
is in your letter ; for it is not necessary it should be known 
— especially as I hope you will at once take steps for a re- 
conciliation and think no more of it. And it was very good 
of your sister to go out and pay them a visit at Allt-nam-Ba. 
I have had a letter from lier also — as kind as she always is 
■ — asking me to go to Inverstroy at Christmas ; but you will 
understand from what I have said that this is impossible, 
nor can I make any engagement with any one now, nor 
have I any desire to do so. I am satisfied to be as I am — - 
also, 1 rejoice to think that I have the opportunity ; I wish 
for nothing more except to hear that you have agreed to 
my suggestion and gone back to Lynn. As for my mother 
and myself, we shall perhaps go to the south of France 
wiien she is a little stronger ; but at present she is too weak 
to travel ; and hap})ily we find ourselves very well content 
with this place, now that we are familiar with it, and have 
found out different ways of passing the time. It is not so 
wild and beautiful as Ailt-nam-Ba, but it is a cheerful place 
for. an invalid : we have a pretty balcony, from which we 
can look at the people on the promenade, and the sea, and 
the ships ; and we have a pony-carriage for the country 
roads, and have driven almost everywhere in the neighbor- 
hood. 

“ So now I will say good-by, dear Archie ; and 1 hope 
you will consider my proposal ; and see that it is wise. 
What may occur in the future, who can tell? — but in tlie 
meantime let us do what is best for those around us ; and 
I think this is the right wmy. I should feel far happier if I 
knew that you were not wondering when this service that 
I owe to my mother were to end ; and also I should feel far 
hap})ier to know that I was no longer the cause of disagree- 
ment and unhappiness in your family. Give my love to 
your sister when you see her; and if you hear anything 
about the Gress people, I should be glad to hear some news 
about them also. 

“ Believe me, yours affectionately, 

“ Yolande.” 

She looked at this letter for a long time before putting 
it into an envelope and addressing it; and when she posted 
it, it was with a guilty conscience. So far as it went, 8h« 


YOLANDE. 


361 


had told llie truth. This duty she owed to her mother was 
paramount; and she knew not for how long it miglit be de- 
manded of her. And no doubt she would feel freer and 
more content in her mind if ])er engagement were broken 
off — if she had no longer to fear that he might be becoming 
impatient over the renewed w^iiting and waiting. But that 
was only part of tlie'truth. She could not blind herself to 
the fact that this letter was very little more than a skillful 
piece of prevarication ; and this consciousness iiaunted her, 
and troubled her, and shamed her. She grew uneasy. Her 
mother noticed tliat the girl seemed anxious and disti-aught, 
and questioned her; but Yolaride answei-ed evasively. She 
did not think it worth while to burden her mother’s mind 
with her private disquietudosr. 

No, she had not {)ecn true to herself ; and she knew it ; 
and the knowledge lu-ought shame to her cheeks when she 
was alone. With a conscience ill at eas.*, the clieerfulness 
with wliich she set abotit her ordinary task of keeping her 
mother employed and amused was just a- little bit forced ; 
and desjnte lierself she fell into continual reveries — tliink- 
ing of the arrival of the letter, of his o])ening it, of his pos- 
sible conjectures about it. Then, besides these sraitings of 
conscience, there was another thing: would he consider 
the reason she had advanced for breaking off the engage- 
ment as sufficient? Would he not declare himself willing to 
wait? The tone of liis letter had been firm enough. He 
was unmoved by this o})position on the part of Ids own 
people ; it Avas not to gain any release that he Had written 
to her. And now ndght he not still adhere to his resolution 
_ — refusing to make up the quarrel ; resolved to wait Yo- 
lande’s good pleasure; and so, in eifect, requiiang of her 
tlie fulfilment of her pliglited troth ? 

Jt would be difficult to say which was the stronger mo- 
tive — tlie shamed consciousness that she had not spoken 
honestly, or the ever-increasing fear tliat, after all, she 
might not be able to free herself from this impossible bond ; 
but at all events she determined to supplement that letter 
Avith a franke]' one. Indeed, she stole out that same even- 
ing, under some pretence or other, and Avent to the post- 
office and sent off this telegram to him : 

“ Letter posted to you tliis afternoon : do not ansAver it 
until you got the folloAving.” Then she Avent back to the 
rooms quickly, her heart someAvhat lighter, though, indeed, 
all during dinner she was puzzling to decide Avhat she 


362 


YOLANDE. 


should say, and liow to make lier confession not too humi* 
hating. She did not wish him to think too badly of her. 
Was it not possible for them to part friends? Or would he 
be angry, and call her “ jilt,” “ light o’ love,” and so 
forth, as she had called herself? Indeed, she had re- 
proached herself enough; anything that he could say would 
be nothing new to her. Only she hoped — for she liad had 
a gentle kind of regard for him, and he had been mixed up 
in her imaginings of the future, and they had spent happy 
days and evenings together, on board ship or in the small 
lodge between the streams — that they might part friends, 
without angry words. 

“ Yolande there is something troubling you,” her 
mother said, as they sat at table. 

She had been watching the girl in her sad, tender way. 
As soon as she had spoken Yolande instantly pulled herself 
together. 

“ Why, yes, there is indeed ! ” she said. “ Shall I tell 
you what it is mother? I have been thinking that soon we 
shall be as tired of pheasants as we were of grouse and hares. 
Papa sends us far too many; or rather it is Mr. Shortlands 
now ; and I don't know what to do with them — unless 
somebody in the town would exchange them. Is it possi- 
ble? Would not that be an occupation, now — to sit in a 
poulterer’s shop and say, ‘ I will give you three brace of 
pheasants for so many of this and so many of that? ’ ” 

“ You wrote a long letter this afternoon,” the mother 
said, absently. “ Was it to ]Mr. Shortlands ?” 

“ Oh no,” Yolande said, with a trifle of color in her 
face. “ It was to the Master of Lynn. I have often told 
you about him, mother. And one thing I quite forgot. I 
forgot to ask him to inquire of Mrs. Bell where the ballad 
of ‘ Young Randal’ is to be found — you remember I told 
you the story? No, there is nothing of it in the stupid 
book I got yesterday — no, nor any story like it, except, per- 
haps, one where a Lord Lovat of former times comes home 
from Palestine and asks for May Maisrey. 

‘ And bonnier than them a’ 

May Maisrey, where is she ? ’ 

It is a pretty name, is it not mother ? But I think I must 
write to Mrs. Bell to send me the words of ‘ Young 
Randal,’ if it is not to be found in a book.” 


VOLANL’iL. 


/ 

“ I Vvisli you would go away to your friends now, Yo- 
iande,” the motlier said, regarding her in that sad and affeo 
tionate way. 

“That is so very likely!” she answered, with much 
cheerfulness. 

“ You ought to go, Yolande. Why should you remain 
here ? Wliy should you he shut up here — away from all 
your friends? You liave done what you came for — I feel 
that now — you need not fear to leave me alone now — to 
leave me in these same lodgings. 1 can stay here very- 
well, and amuse myself witli books and with looking at the 
people passing. I should not be dull. I like the rooms. 
I sliould find amusement enough.” 

“ And wdiere am I to go, then? ” the girl said, calmly. 

“ To your friends — to all those peo])le you have told me 
about. That is the proper kind of life for you, at your age 
— not shut up in lodgings. The lady in the Highlands, for 
■.'xample, who wants you to spend Christmas there.” 

“ \Vell, now, dear mother,” said Yolande, promptly, “I 
Avill not show you another one of my letters if you take the 
nonsense in them as if it were serious. Ciiristmas, indeed ! 
AYhy, do you know wliere we shall be at Christmas ? 
Well, then, at Monte Carlo? No, mother, you need not 
look forward to the tables ; I will not permit any such 
wickedness, though I have staked more than once — or, 
rather, })apa staked for me — five-franc pieces, and always 
1 won — for as soon as I had wmu five francs I came away 
to make sure. But we shall not go to the tables ; 
there is enough without that. There are beautiful diives ; 
and you can walk through the gardens and down the ter 
races until you get a boat to go out on the blue water. 
Then, the other side you take a carriage and drive up to 
the little town, and by the sea there are more beautiful 
gardens. And at Monte Carlo I know an excellent hotel, 
with fine views ; and always there is excellent music. And 
— and you think 1 am going to spend Christmas in a High- 
land glen 1 Grazie alia bonta saa/’^ 

“ It is too much of a sacrifice. You must leave me to 
myself — I can do very well by myself now,” tlie mother 
said, looking at the girl with wistful eyes. “ I should be 
ii-i])py enough only to hear of you. I should like to hear 
of your being married, Yolande.” 

“ 1 am not likely to be married to any one,” said she, 
with averted eyes and burning forehead. “Ho not speak 


364 


YOLANDE. 


of it, mother. My place is by you ; and here I remain — un- 
til you turn me away.'’ 

*^That same night she wrote the letter which was to sup- 
plement the former one and free her conscience : 

“ Dear Archie, — In the letter I sent you this afternoon 
I was not quite frank with you; and I can not rest until I 
tell you so. There are other reasons besides those I men- 
tioned why I think our engagement should be broken off 
now ; and also, for I wish to be quite honest, and to tlirow 
myself on your generosity and forbearance, why I think 
that we ought not to look forward to the marriage that was 
tliouglit of. Perliajis you will ask me wdiat these reasons 
arc — and you have the right ; and in that case I will tell 
you. I>ut perhaps you will be kind, and not ask; and I 
should never forget your kindness. When I promised to 
m.arry you, I thought that the friendliness and affection that 
prevailed betw^eeii us was enough ; I did not imagine any 
thing else; you must think of how I was brought up, with 
scarcely any women friends except the ladies at the chateau, 
who were very severe as to the duty of children to their 
parents, and when I learned that my papa approved my 
marrying you, it w^as sufficient for me. But now I think 
not. I do not think I should bring you happiness. There 
ought to be no regret on the marriage-day — no thoughts 
of going away elsewhere. You have the right to be angry 
with me, because I have been careless, and allowed myself 
to become affectionate to some one else without my know- 
ing it ; Init it was not with intention ; and now that I know, 
should 1 be doing right in allowing our engagement to con- 
tinue? Ycj?, you have tlie riglit to upbraid me; but you 
can not think worse of me than I think of myself ; and per- 
haps it is well that the mistake was soon found out, before 
harm was done. As for me, my ])ath is clear. All that I 
said in the other letter as to the immediate future, and I 
hope the distant future also, is true ; you have only to look 
at this other explanation to know exactly how I am situ* 
ated. I welcome my position and its duties — they drive a^vay 
sometimes sad thinking and regret over what has happened. 
You were always very kind and considerate to me ; you 
deserved tliat Ikci)t my faith to you more strictly ; and if 1 
were to see your sister, what should I say ? Only that I am 
sorry tliat I can make no more amends ; and to beg for 
your forgiveness and for hers. And perhaps it is better as 


YOLANDE, 


3b5 


it is for all of us. My way is clear. I must be with- my 
mother. Perhaps, some day, if our engagement had con- 
tinued, I might have been tempted to repine. I hope not ; 
but I have no longer such faith in myself. But now you 
are free from the impatience of waiting; and I — I go my 
own way, and am all the more certain to give all my devo- 
tion where it is needed. I would pray you not to think 
too harshly of me, only I know that I have not the right to 
ask ; and 1 should like to part friends with you, if only for 
the sake of the memories, that one treasures. My letter is 
ill-expressed — tliat I am sure it must be ; but perhaps you 
will guess at anything I should have said and have not said; 
and believe tlmt I could stretchout my hands to you to beg 
for your forgiveness, and for gentle thoughts of me in the 
future, after some years have given us time to look back. I 
do not think little of any kindness that has been shown to 
me; and I shall remember your kindness to me always ; 
and also your sister’s;^ and the kindness of every one, as it 
seemed to mer, whom I met in the Highlands. I have made 
this confession to you without consulting any one ; for it is 
a matter only between you and me ; and I do not know how 
you will receive it ; only that I pray you once more for 
your forgiveness, and not to think too harshly, but, if you 
have such gentleness and commiseration, to let us remain 
friends, and to think of each other in the future as not alto- 
gether strangers. I know it is much that I ask, and that 
you have the right to refuse ; but I shall look for your 
letter with the rememberance of your kindness in the 
past. 

Yolande.” 

It was a piteous kind of letter ; for she felt very solitary 
and unguided in this crisis ; moreover, it was rather hard 
to 6ght through this thing, and preserve at the same time 
an appearance of absolute cheerfulness, so long as her mo- 
ther was in the room. But she got it done ; and Jane was 
sent out to the post-office ; and thereafter Yolande — wdth 
something of trial and trouble in her eyes, perhaps, but 
otherwise with a brave face — ^fetched down some volumes 
from the little book-case, and asked her mother what she 
wanted to have read. 


YOLANDR, 


8e« 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

THE HOUR OF VENGEANCE. 

The Master of Lynn had spent the whole of the morning 
:ti arranging affairs with his father’s agent ; and when he 
left Mr. Ronald Macplierson’s office he knew that he had 
now all tlie world to clioose from. He was anxious to get 
away from this dawdling life in Inverness ; but, on the 
other hand, he was not going back to Lynn. He still felt an- 
gry and indignant ; lie considered he Iiad been badly used ; and 
it is far from improbable that if, at this moment, Yolande 
had been differently situated, and if ISIr. Winterbourne had 
been likely to give his consent, he, the Master, would now 
have proposed an immediate marriage, leaving his father and 
aunt to do or think as tliey pleased. But, in the present 
circumstances, that was impossible ; and he did not know 
well which way to turn ; and had generally got himself into 
an unsettled, impatient, irritable condition, whicli boded no 
good either for himself or for them who had thwarted him. 

IFe returned to the Station Hotel, and was having lunch 
by himself in the large and almost empty dining-room, when 
two letters were brought him which had doubtless arrived 
by that morning’s mail. As he was thinking of many things, 
it did not occur to him to look at both addresses and decide 
which letter should have precedence ; lie mechanically 
opened and read the first that came to baud : 

St. James’s Club, Piccadilly, October 31. 

“ Dear Leslie, — Are you game for a cruise ? I will go 
where you like ; and start any day you like. 1 have never 
taken the Juliet across the Atlantic — what do you say ? 
The worst of it is, there ain’t much to see when you get 
there ; but we should have some fun going over and coming 
back. Drop me a line. She is at Plymouth, and could be 
got ready in a week. 

“Yours ever, Dartown.” 

“How, to have a three-hundred-ton steam-yacht put at 
your disposal is an agreeable kind of thing ; but there were 


YOL.tAUE. 


3G7 


other circumstances in this case. Lord Dartown was a 
young Irish 23eer who liad inherited an illustrious name, 
large estates (fortunately for him, some of them were in 
England), and a sufficiency of good looks ; but wlio, on the 
other hand, seemed determined to bid a speedy farewell to 
all of those by means of incessant drinking. His fi*iends 
regarded him with mucli interest, for he was doing it on dry 
cham})agne ; and as that is a most iimisual circumstance — • 
champagne being somewhat too much of child’s play foi 
the serious drinker — they looked on and wondered how long 
it would last, and repeated incredible stories as to the 
number of bottles this youtli could consume from the mo- 
ment of his awaking in his berth until his falling asleep in 
the same. ^\\q. Juliet was an exceedingly well-appointed 
vessel ; the cook had a reputation that a poet might envy ; 
but the habits of the owner were peculiar, and most fre- 
quently he had to make Ins cruises alone. But he had al- 
ways had a great respect for the Master of Lynn, who was 
his senior by a year or two, when they were school-fellows 
together; and sometimes in later years a kind of involun- 
tary admiration for the firm nerve and hardened frame of 
his deer-stalking friend would lead to a temporary fit of re- 
formation, and he would even take to practising with dumb- 
bells, which his trembling muscles could scarcely hold out 
at arm’s-length. 

“ Owley must be off his head altogether this time,” 
the Master of Lynn coolly said to himself, as he regarded 
the shaky hand writing of the letter. “To think of facing 
the “j-olling foi'ties ’ at this time of year ! We sliould die 
of cold besides. Not good enough, Owley ; you must 
‘throw a fly over somebody else.” 

So he put that letter aside, and took up the other. It 
was the second one of the two that Yolande had sent him ; 
he had got its predecessor on the ju’evious day. And now, 
as he read this final declaration and confession, it was with 
an ever-increasing surprise ; but it certainly was with no 
sense of dismay or disappointment, or even the resentment 
of wounded vanity. He did not even, at this moment heed 
the piteous appeal for charity and kindliness ; it was not of 
her he was thinking, and scarcely of himself ; it was rather 
of the ])eople at Lynn, 

“ Now I will show them what they have done ! ” he 
was saying to himself, with a kind of triumph. “ They 
»hall see what they have done, and I hope they will be sat- 


o68 


YOLAXDE. 



/ 

istied. As for me, I am going my own way after tliis. I 
have had enough of it. . Polly may sclieme as site likes * 
and they may rage, or refuse, or go to the deuce, if they like ; 

1 am going to look after myself now.” 

He picked up the other letter, and took both with him 
into the writing-room ; he had forgotten that he had left 
his lunch but half finished. And there he read Yolande's 
appeal to him with more care ; and he was touched by the 
penitence and the simplicity, and the eager wish for friend- 
liness in it ; and' he determined, as he sat down at the 
writing-table, that, as far as he had command of the English 
language, she should have safe assurance that they were to 
part on kindly terms. Indeed, as it turned out, this was 
the most affectionate letter he had ever sent her ; and it 
might have been said of him, with regard to this engage- 
ment, that nothing in it so well became him as his manner 
of leaving it : 

“ My Dearest Yolande,” he wrote, — “ I am inexpres- 
sibly grieved that you should have given yourself the pain 
to write such a letter ; and you might have known that 
whenever you wished our engagement to cease I should con- 
sider you had the right to say so, and so far from accusing 
you or doing anything in the tragedy line, I should beg to 
be allowed to remain always your "friend. And it won’t 
take any length of time for me to be on quite friendly terms 
with you — if you will let me ; for I am so now ; and if I 
saw you to-morrow I should be glad of your companionship 
for as long as you chose to give it me ; and I don’t at all 
\liink it impossible that we may have many another stroll, 
along the streets of Inverness, when you come back to the 
Iligldands, as you are sure to do. Of course I am quite 
sensible of what I have lost — you can’t expect ir.e te be 
otherwise ; and I dare say if all the cii-cumstances iiad l)een 
propitious, and if we had married, we sliouUl liave got en 
very well together — for when Polly attributes evert hing 
that happens to my temper, that is merely because slie is 
in the wrong, and can’t find any other excuse ; whereas, if 
you and I had got married, I fancy we should have agreed 
very well, so long as no one interfered. But, to tell you 
the honest truth, my dear Yolande, I never did think you 
were very anxious about it ; you seemed to regaixl our 
engagement as a very light matter — or as somethiiig that 
would please everybody all round ; and though 1 trusted 


YOLANDE. 


369 


tliat llie futTire would right all that — I mean that we should 
heconie more iutimate and affectionate — still, there would 
have hecu a risk ; and it is only common-sense to regard 
tliese things now as some consolation, and as some reason 
why, if you say, “Let us break off this engagement,”! 
should say, “ Very well ; but let us continue our friend- 
ship.” 

“ But there is a tremendous favor I would beg and cr.- 
treat of you, dearest Yolande;and you always had the 
most generous disposition — I never knew you to refuse any- 
body anything (I do believe that was why you got engaged 
to me — because you thought it would please the Grahams 
and all the rest of us). I do hope that you will consent to 
keep the people at Lynn in ignorance — they could only 
know tliroLigh Polly, and you could keep it back from her — 
as to who it was, or why it was, that our engagement was 
broken off. Tliis is not from vanity ; I think you will say I 
haven’t shown n7uch of that sort of distemj)er. It is merely 
that I may liave the whip-hand of the Lynn people. They 
have used me badly ; and I mean to take care that they 
don’t serve me so again ; and if they imagine that our en- 
gagement had been bi’oken off solely, or even partly, through 
their opposition, that will be a weapon for me in the future. 
And then the grounds of their o])position — that they or their 
friends might have to associate with one professing such 
opinions as those your father owns ! You may rest assured, 
dearest Yolande, that I did not })ut you forward and make 
any appeal ; and equally I knew you would resent my 
making any apology for your father, or allowing that any 
consideration on their part was demanded. It’s no use rea- 
soning with raving maniacs ; I retired. But I mention this 
once more as an additional reason why, if our engagement 
is to be broken off, we should make up our minds to look on 
the best side of affairs, and to part on the best of terms ; for 
I must confess more frankly to you now that there would 
liave been some annoyance, and you would naturally liave 
been angry on account of your father, and I should have 
taken your side, and there would simply have been a series 
of elegant family squabbles. 

“ There are one or two other points in your letter that 
I don’t touch on ; except to say that I hope you will^ write 
to me again — and soon ; and that you will write in a very 
different tone. I hope you will see that many things justi- 
fy you in so doing ; and I hope I have made this letter as 


YOLANDE. 


3‘:0 

plain as can be. I liavc kept back nothing ; so you needn’t 
be reading between the lines. If you have no time to write 
a letter, send me a few words to show that you are in a 
more cheerful mood. If you don’t I shouldn’t wonder if I 
broke through all social observances, and presented myself 
at your door — to convince you that you have done quite 
right, and that everything is well, and that you have given 
me a capital means of having it out with the Lynn people 
when the })ropcr times comes. So please let me have a few 
lines ; and in the meantime I liope I may be allowed to 
sign myself. 

“ Yours, most affectionately, A. Leslie. 

“ P.S. — Do you remember my telling you of the small 
youth who was my fag — the cheeky young party who was 
always smuggling champagne and pastry? I may have 
told you that he is now the owner of a three-hundred-ton 
yacht? Well, he wants me to go a cruise with him. I had 
not intended doing so; but it occurs to me that I might do 
Avorse — as all my affairs are settled up here; and so, if you 
can write to me within the next few days, Avill you please 
address me at the Hotel, Jermyn Street?” 

Then lie Avrote : — 

Inverness, October 31. 

“Dear Oavley, — It isn’t a cornjmgnmi de voyage yow 
Avant ; it’s a straight-waistcoat. You Avould knock the 
Juliet all to bits if you took her across noAv ; and a fine 
thing to choose winter for a visit to *NeAV York, where the 
Aveather is cold enough to freeze the ears off a brass 
monkey. This letter will reach London same time as my- 
self; so you can look me up at Hotel, Jermyn Street; 

and I’ll talk to you like a father about it. My notion is you 
should send the Jidiet to Gib., and we could make our Avay 
down through Spain ; or, if that is too tedious for your 
lordship, send her to Marseilles, and then we could fill up 
the intervening time in Paris. I have never been to Venice 
in a yacht ; and don’t remember Avhether you can get near 
enough to Danieli’s to make it handy ; but I suppose, even 
if you have to lie down by the Giudecca, there would be 
no difficulty about getting people to a dance on board ? 
I’ll see you through it. 


Yours, 


A. Leslie. 


YOLANDE. 


And llien (for now the hour of vengeance had struck) 
he wrote as follows to his sister : — 

Station Hotel, October 31. 

“ Deak Polly, — I have to inform you, and I hope you 
will convey the information to his pa])ashi}) and to Aunty 
Tab, that my engagement to Yolande Winterbourne is 
finally, definitely, and irrevocably broken off. I liope they 
will be satisfied. 1 shall be more careful another time to 
keep the affair in my own hands. 

“lain off for a cruise with Dartown, in the Juliet. 
Guess there’ll be about as much fiuul inside as outside th;.^t 
noble craft. 

“ Your affectionate brotliei-, ArxiiiE. 

And then, having folded up and addressed his letters, 
he arose and went outside and lit a cigar. He thought he 
would have a stroll away through tlie town and out by tlie 
harbor, just to think over this that had occurred, and 
what was likely to occur in the future. It hap])ened to be 
a very bright and cheerful aftei-noon ; and he walked cpiickly, 
with a sort of glad consciousness that he was now master of 
his own destiny, and meant to remain so; and when he 
came in sight of the rufiied and windy blue sea, that havl 
suggestions of voyaging and the seeing of strange places tliat 
were pleasant enough. Then his cigar drew well ; and that, 
.althougli it may be unconsciously, tells on a man’s mood. 
He began to be rather grateful to Yohuide. He hoped she 
would quite understand his letter ; and answer it in the old 
familiar, affectionate way, just as if nothing had occurred. 
It distressed him to think she should be in such grief — in 
sucli ])eiiitence. But he knetv he should get some cheerful 
lines from her; and that, and all, was well. 

By-and-by, however, a very uncomfortable suspicion got 
hold of him. He had had no very large experience of women 
and their ways; and he began to ask himself whether the 
ready acquiescence he had yielded to Yolande’s prayer 
would please her ovei-inuch. It certainly was not flattering 
to her vanity. For one thing, he could not wholly explain 
his position to her. He could not tell her that lie liad vir- 
tually said to his fatlicr, “ Here is a way of getting back 
Corrievreak ; and getting the whole estate into proper 
condition. You refuse? Very well; you mayn’t get 
aiioUier chance, remember.” He could not fully ex]flain to 


YOLANDE. 


lier why her proposal, instead of bringing him disappoint, 
merit, was rather welcome, as offering him a means of ven- 
geance for the annoyance he had been subjected to. She 
knew nothing of Shena Yan. She knew nothing of the pro- 
posal to complete the Lynn deer forest. So he began to 
think that his letter, breaking off the engagement so very 
willingly, might not wholly please her; and as he was well 
disposed toward Yolande at that moment, and honestly de- 
siring that they should part the best of friends, he slowly 
walked back to the hotel, composing a few more sentences 
by the way, so that her womanly pride should not be wound- 
ed. 

But it was a difficult matter. He went upstairs to his 
room, and packed his things for the journey to London, while 
thinking over what he ^^muld say to her. And it was very 
near dinner-time before he had finished this addendum to 
his previous letter : 

“My deakest Yolande,“ he wrote, — “I want to say 
something more to you ; if you get the two letters together, 
read this one second. Perhaps you may think, from what 
I said in the other, that I did not sufficiently value the pros- 
pect that was before me at one time, or else I should say 
something more about losing it. I am afraid you may think 
1 have given you up too easily and lightly ; but you would 
make a great mistake if you think I don’t know what I have 
lost. Only I did not want to make it too grave a matter ; 
your letter was very serious, and I want you to think, that 
there is no reason why we should not continue on quite 
friendly and intimate terms. Of course 1 know what I have 
lost ; I wasn’t so long in your society — on board ship, 
and in the dahabeeyah, too, and at Alit-nam-Ba — without 
seeing how generous you were, and sincere and anxious to 
make every one around you happy; and if it comes to 
that, and if you will let me say it, a man naturally looks 
forward with some pride to having always him a wife 
who can hold her own with everybody in regard to per- 
sonal appearance, and grace and finish of manner, and ac- 
complishments. Of course I know what I have lost. 1 
am not blind. I always looked forward to seeing you and 
Polly together at the ball at the Northern Meeting. ]bu 
when you say it is impossible, and seem put out about it, 
natumlly I tried to find out reasons for looking at the bc:«t 
Bide of the matter. It is the wisest way. When you miss 
a bird it is of no use saying, < Confound it, I liave missed ; 


YOLANDE. 


371 


It IS much better to say, ‘ Tliank goodness I didn’t go near 
it ; it won’t go away wounded.’ And, quite apart from 
anything you said in your l(?tLer of to-day, there was enough 
in your letter of yesterday to warrant us botli in consenting 
to break off the engagement, Circumstances '.7 ctc against 
It on both sides. Of coursal would have gone on— as I 
wrote to you. A man can’t be such a cur as to break his 
word to his promised wife simply because his relatives are 
ill-tempered — at least, if, I came across such a gentleman he 
wouldn’t very long be any acquaintance of mine. But there 
would have been trouble and family squabbles, as I say, if 
not a complete family separation — which could not be 
pleasant to a young wife ; and then, on your side, there is 
this duty to your mother, which was not contemplated 
when we were engaged ; and so, when we consider every- 
thing, perhaps it is better as it is. I dare say, if we had 
married, we should haVe been as contented as most people ; 
and I should have beeii very proud of you as my wife, natu- 
rally ; but it is no use speculating on what might have been. 
It is very fortunate, when an engagement is broken off, if 
not a particle of blame attaches to either side : and in that 
way we should consider ourselves lucky, as giving no handle 
for any ill-natured gossip. 

“ Of course Polly will be cut up about it. She always 
had an extraordinary affection for you ; and looked forward 
to your being her sister. Graham wdll be disappointed too ; 
yon were always very highly valued in that quarter. But 
if you and I are of one mind that the decision we have 
come to is a wise one, it is our business, and no one else’s.” 

He stopped and read over again those last sentences. 

“ I consider, now,” he was saying to himself, “ that 
that is a friendly touch — No blame attaching to either side: 
that will please her ; she always was very sensitive, and 
pleased to be thought well of.” 

“ And even,” he continued, “ if I should get reconciled 
to my people (about wdiich I , am in no hurry), Lynn will 
seem a lonely place after this autumn ; and I suppose I shall 
conceive a profound detestation for next year’s tenant of 
Allt-nam-Ba. Probably two or three bachelor fellows will 
have the Lodge ; and it will be pipes and brandy-and-soda 
and limited loo in the evening ; they won’t know that there 
was once a fairy living in that glen. But I don’t despair 
of seeing you again in the Highlands, and your father too ; 
and, as they say the subject of deer forests is to be biought 


874 


YOLANDE. 


before tlie House, he will now be in a position to talk a 
little common-sense to them about that subject. Did you 
see that the chief agitator on this matter has just been 
caught speaking about the grouse and red-deer of Iona ? 
Now 1 will undertake to eat all the red-deer and all the 
grouse he can find in Iona at one meal ; and I’ll give him 
three months for the search.” 

He thought this was very cleverly introduced. It was 
to give her the impression that they could now write to each 
other indifferently on the subjects of the day — in short, 
that they were on terms of ordinary and pleasant friend- 
ship. 

“ But I dare say you will consider me prejudiced — ^for 
I have been brought up from my infancy, almost, with a 
rifle in my hand ; and so I will end this scrawl, again ask- 
ing from you a few lines just to show that we are friends 
as before, and as I hope we shall ever remain. 

“ Yours, most affectionately, 

Archie Leslie.” 

It was a clever letter, he considered. The little touches 
of flattery ; tlie business-like references to the topics of the 
day ; the frank appeals to her old friendship — these would 
not be in vain. And so he went in to his dinner with a 
light heart, and the same night went comfortably to sleep 
in a saloon-carriage bound for London. 


YOLANDE. 


875 


CHAPTER XLY. 

A PERILOUS SITUATION. 

The Master of Lynn, however, was not destined to get to 
London without an adventure — an adventure, moreover, that 
was very near ending seriously. Most people who have trav- 
elled in the north will remember that the- night train from Inver- 
ness stops for a considerable time, in the morning, at Perth, 
before setting out again for the south ; and this break in the 
journey is welcome enough to passengers who wish to have the 
stains of travel washed from their hands and faces, to get their 
breakfast in peace and comfort, and have their choice of the 
morning newspapers. The Master of Lynn had accomplished 
these various duties ; and now he was idly walking up and down 
the stone platforms of the wide-resounding station, smoking a 
cigarette. He was in a contented frame of mind. There had 
been too much trouble of late up there in the north ; and he 
hated trouble ; and he thought he would find tile society of 
“ Owley” very tolerable, for “ Owley” would leave him alone. 
He finished his cigarette ; had another look at the book-stall; 
purchased a two-shilling novel that promised something fine, 
for there was a picture outside of a horse coming to awful 
grief at a steeplechase, and its rider going through the air like 
a cannon-ball ; and then he strolled back to the compartment 
he had left, vacantly whistling the while “ The Hills of Lynn.” 

Suddenly he was startled to find a well-known face regarding 
him. It was Shena Van; and she was seated in a corner of a 
second-class carriage. The moment she saw that he had noticed 
her she averted her eyes, and pretended not to have seen him ; 
but he instantly went to the door of the carriage. 

“ It isn’t possible you arc going to London, Miss Stewart ?” 
said he, in great surprise. 

“ Oh no,” said Shena Van. “ I am not going so far as that.” 

“ How far, then ?” he asked — for he saw that she was embar- 
rassed, and only wishing to get rid of him, and certainly that she 
would afford no information that wasn’t asked for. 


376 


YOLANDE. 


“ I am going to Carlisle,” said she, not looking at him. 

“ And alone ?” 

“ Oh yes. But my brother’s friends will be waiting for m« at 
the station.” 

“ Oh, you must let me accompany you, though,” said he, 
quickly. “ You won’t mind?” 

He did not give her the chance of refusing ; for he had little 
enough time in which to fetch his things along from the other 
carriage. Then he had to call the newsboy, and present to Miss 
Stewart such an assortment of illustrated papers, comic journals, 
and magazines as might have served for a voyage to Australia. 
And then the door was shut, the whistle shrieked, and the long, 
heavy train moved slowly out of the station. 

“ Well, now,” said he, “this is lucky ! Who could have ex- 
pected it ? I did not see you at the station last night.” 

She had seen him, however, though she did not say so. 

“ I did not even know you were in Inverness ; I thought you 
were at Aberdeen.” 

“ I have been in Aberdeen,” said she. “ I only went back a 
day or two ago to get ready for going south.” 

“ I suppose I mustn’t ask you what is taking you to Carlisle ? 
— and yet we used to be old friends, you know.” 

Now Miss Stewart was a little bit annoyed at his thrusting 
himself on her society, and she was very near answering saucily 
that it was the train that was taking her, south ; but a little 
touch of feminine vanity saved him from that reproof. Shena 
Van was rather glad to have the chance of telling him why she 
was going south. 

“ It is no great secret,” said she. “ I am going to stay with 
the family of the young lady whom my brother will marry be- 
fore long. It appears that the professorship will be worth a 
good deal more than we expected — oh yes, indeed, a good deal 
more — and there is no reason why he should not marry.” 

“ Well, that is good news,” said the Master, cheerfully. “And 
what sort of girl is she ? Nice ?” 

“ She is a very well-accomplished young lady,” said Shena 
Van, with some dignity. “She was two years in Germany at 
school and two years in France, and she is very well fitted to be 
a professor’s wife, and for the society that comes to my broth- 
er’s house.” 

“ I hope she’s good-looking ?” 

“ As to that,” said Miss Stewart, “ I should say she was very 
pretty indeed; but that is of no consequence nowadays,” 

“ Why, what else is !” he exclaimed, boldly. 


YOLANDE. 377 

But this was clearly dangerous ground ; and Miss Stewart 
sought refuge in the pages of Punch. 

He had time to regard her. He had never seen her look so 
well. She had made ample use of the clear water supplied at 
Perth station, and her face was as fresh as the morning, while 
her pretty, soft light brown hair was carefully brushed and 
tended. As for her eyes — those strangely dark blue eyes that 
he could remember in former years brimming over with girlish 
merriment or grown pensive with imaginative dreams — he could 
not get a fair glimpse of them at all, for when she spoke slie 
kept them averted or turned down ; and at present she devoted 
them to the study of Punch. He began to regret those exten- 
sive purchases at the station. He made sure she was at this 
moment poring over Mr. Du Maurier’s drawings — for it is to 
them that women-folk instinctively turn first ; and he grew to 
be jealous of Mr. Du Maurier, and to wish, indeed, that Mr. Du 
Maurier had never been born — a wish, one may be certain, then 
formulated for the fir^t and only time by any inhabitant of these 
three countries. Moreover, when she had finished with Punch, 
she took up this magazine and that magazine, and this journal 
and that journal, the while answering his repeated attempts at 
conversation in a very distant and reserved way, and clearly in- 
timating that she wished to be allowed to prosecute her studies. 
He hated the sight of those pages. He was ready to devote the 
whole periodical literature of his country to the infernal gods. 
Why, look now on this beautiful, shining morning, how she 
ought to be admiring those far-stretching Ochils and the distant 
Braes of Donne ! Here were the wooded banks of Allan Waterf ' 
had these no romantic associations for her, no memories of 
broken-hearted lovers and sad stories, and the like ? Had she 
no eye for the wide open sfrath they were now entering, with 
the silver winding Links of Forth coming nearer and nearer, and 
a pale blue smoke rising afar over the high walls and ramparts 
of Stirling town? He verily believed that, just to keep away 
from him, and fix her attention on something, she was capable 
of reading Parliamentary Debates — the last resort of the vacant 
mind. 

But once they were away from Stirling again he determined 
at all hazards to startle her out of this distressing seclusion. 

“ Shena,” said he, “ do I look ill?” 

She glanced up, frightened. 

» No> 

“ I ought to look ill — I ought to look unhappy and miserable,” 
said he, cheerfully. “ Don’t you know that I have been jilted?” 


378 


VOL A AWE. 


Well, she did not quite know what to say to that. He looked 
as if he was joking ; and yet it was not a thing he was likely to 
mention in joke — and to her. 

“ It is quite true, I assure you,” said he, seeing that she did 
not make answer. “ You said you had heard I was going to he 
married. Well, it’s all broken off.” 

“ I am very sorry,” said Shena Van, as in duty bound ; but 
she was clearly not very sure as to how to take the news. 

“ Oh, please don’t waste any pity on me,” said he. “ I don’t 
feel very miserable. I feel rather the other way. ‘ Ah, freedom 
is a noble thing ’ — you remember how Barbour used to puzzle 
you, Shena? Yes, I am free now to follow out my own wushes; 
and that’s what I mean to do.” 

. “ You are going to live in London, perhaps?” said Miss Stew- 
art, regarding him, but not betraying any keen personal interest. 

“ Why, this is the point of it,” said he, wdth greater anima- 
tion, for at last she had deigned to lay down the newspaper, 
“that I don’t in the least know where I am going, and don’t 
much care. I have determined to be my own master, since my 
folk at home appeared disinclined to accept the programme I 
had sketched out ; absolutely my own master. And now if 
you, Sbena, would tell me something very fine and pleasant for 
me to do, that would be a kindness.” 

“ In the mean time,” said she, with a slight smile, “ I wish 
you would call me by my right name.” 

“ Do you think I can forget the days when you w^ere always 
Shena’ ?” said he, with a sort of appealing glance that her eyes 
were careful to avoid. “ Don’t you remember when I brought 
you the white kitten from Inverness, and how it was always 
pulling its collar of daisies to pieces? Don’t you remember my 
getting you the falcon’s wings ? Why, I had to lie all night 
among the rocks on Carn-nan-Gael to get at that falcon. And 
you were always ‘Shena’ then.” 

“ Because I was a child,” said Miss Stewart, with a slight flush 
on the pretty, fresh-colored face. “ When we grow up we put 
aside childish things.” 

- “ But we can’t always forget,” said he. 

“ Indeed, it seems easy enough to many,” she answered, but 
w'ith no apparent sarcasm or intention. “ And you have not 
fixed when you are going, Mr. Leslie ?” she added, with a cer- 
tain formality. 

“ At the present moment, to tell you the truth,” said he, “ I 
liave half made an engagement to go away on a yachting cruise 
with a young fellow I know. But he is rather an ass^ I am 


YOLANDE. 379 

not looking forward to it with any great pleasure. Ah ! 1 could 
imagine another kind of trip.” 

She did not ask him what it was. She seemed more inclined 
to turn over the title-pages of the magazines. 

“ I can imagine two young people who are fond of each other 
being able to go away by themselves on a ramble through Italy 
— perhaps two young people who had been separated, and meet- 
ing after a time, and inclined to take their lives into their own 
hands, and do with them what seemed best — leaving friends 
and other considerations aside altogether. And they might 
have old times to talk about as they sat at dinner — by them- 
selves — in a room at this or that hotel — perhaps overlooking the 
Rhine, it may be, if they were still in Germany; or perhaps 
overlooking the Arno, if they were in Florence. Fancy having 
only the one companion with you, to go through the galleries, 
and see all the pictures ; and to go to the opera with you in the 
evening — just the one and only companion you would care to 
have with you. Wouldn’t that be a trip?” 

“I dare say,” replied Miss Stewart, coldly. “But the two 
people would have to be pretty much of one mind.” 

“ I am supposing they are fond of each other,” said he, look- 
ing at her; but she would not meet his glance. 

“ I suppose it sometimes happens,” said she, taking up one 
of the magazines, so that he was forced to seek refuge in a 
comic journal, greatly against his will. 

By-and-by they were hurling onward through the solitudes 
where the youthful Clyde draws its waters from the burns that 
trickle and tumble down the slopes of “Tintock Tap.” He 
thought it was not kind of Shena Van to hide herself away like 
that. Her imagination would not warm to any picture he could 
draw — ^though that of their being together in a Florentine gallery 
seemed to him rather captivating. Perhaps she was offended 
at his having neglected her for such a long time ? But she was 
a sensible young woman; she must have understood the reasons. 
And now had he not intimated to her that he was no longer 
inclined to submit to the influence of his friends? But she did 
not betray any interest or curiosity. 

“ I wonder whether we stop at Beattock Junction?” said he. 

“ I am sure I don’t know,” she answered, civilly. 

“ Has it occurred to you, Shena,” said he, with a peculiar 
sort of smile, “ that if any one who knew both of us happened 
to be at one of those stations, they might make a curious sur- 
mise about us ?” 

“ I do not understand you,” Miss Stewart observed. 


380 


YOLANDE. 


“ Did you ever hear of Allison’s Bank Tollhouse ?” he asked. 

“No.” 

“That was where they made the Gretna Green marriages — 
is just on this side the Border. I think it is rather a pky the 
Gretna Green marriages were done away with ; it was an ef- 
fectual way of telling your friends to mind their own business. 
There was no trouble about it. But it is just about as easy now, 
if you don’t mind paying for a special license; and I do believe 
it is the best way. Your friends can get reconciled to it after- 
ward if they like ; if they don’t like, they can do the other 
thing. Tliat was what I was thinking, Shena — if some of our 
friends were to see us in this carriage, it wouldn’t surprise me 
if they imagined we were on a venture of that kind.” 

Shena Van blushed deeply, and was ashamed of her embar- 
rassment ; and said, with some touch of anger, 

“ They could not think of such nonscnsel” 

“It’s the sensible plan, though, after all,” said he, pertinacious 
ly, and yet appearing to treat the subject as a matter of specula, 
tion. Jock o’ Hazledean, Young Lochinvar, Bonald Macdonald, 
and the rest of them, whv, they said, ‘Oh, hang it, let’s have no 
more bother about your friends ; if you are willing to chance it, 
so am I; let’s make a bolt of it, and they can have their howl 
when they Mnd out.’ And it answered well enough, according 
to all accounts. I rather think there was a row about Bonny 
Glenlyon; but then the noble sportsman who carried her oif 
carried her off against her will; and that is a mistake. It’s 
‘Will ye gang to the llielands, Leezie Lindsay ?’ and if you can 
persuade her, she ‘kilts up her coats o’ green satin,’ and you lift 
her into the saddle ; but if she doesn’t see it — if she thinks it isn’t 
good enough — you drop the subject.” 

“You seem to hav'e been reading a good many songs,” said 
Shena Van, rather coldl}^ “But people don’t go on in that way 
in ordinary life.” 

“ Perhaps it might be better if they did occasional!}",” said 
he. “You remember Jack Melville, of course?” 

“ Oh, certainly,” said she, with some eagerness, for she 
thought he would now leave that other perilous topic. 

“ AVell, I remember one night, in my rooms, when we were 
at Oxford together, he propounded the theory that morality is 
merely a system of laws devised by the aged and worn-out for 
keeping young people straight. Of course it was only a joke ; 
but it startled the boys a bit. And although it was only a joke, 
mind you, there was something in it ; I mean, for example, that 
it doesn’t follow, because you’re seventy, you know what is best 


YOLANDE. 


381 


for a person of five-and-twenty. You may know wliat is most 
prudent, from the money point of view ; but you don’t neces- 
sarily know what is best. You look with different eyes. And 
there is a great deal too much of that going. on nowadays.” 

“ Of what ?” she asked, innocently. 

“ Oh, of treating life as if everything were a question of 
money,” replied this profound philosopher — who had for the 
moment forgotten all about Corrievreak in his anxiety to get a 
peep at Shena Van’s unfathomable blue eyes. 

Miss Stewart new returned to one of those inhuman periodi- 
cals; and he searched his wits in vain for some subject that 
would draw her thence. Moreover, he began to think that this 
train was going at a mercilous speed. They smashed through 
Lockerbie. They had scarcely a glimpse of Ecclefechan. Kirtle- 
bridge went by like a flash of lightning. And then he recol- 
lected that very soon they would be at Gretna Green. 

“ Shena,” said he, eagerly — “ Shena, have you been as far 
south as this before ?” 

“Oh no,” she answered. “I have never been farther south 
than Edinburgh and Glasgow. But Mary Vincent is to be at 
the station waiting for me.” 

“ I did not mean that. Don’t you know that soon you will 
be at Gretna ? Don’t you know 3^011 will soon bo crossing the 
Border? Why, you should be interested in that! It is your 
first entrance into England. Shall I tell you the moment you 
are in England ?” 

“ Oh yes, if you please,” said Miss Stewart, condescending to 
look out and regard the not very picturesque features of the sur- 
rounding scenery. 

“Well, you be ready to see a lot of things at once, for I 
don’t know whether you actually see Gretna Green church ; but 
I will show you the little stream that divides the two countries 
— that was the stream the runaway lovers were so anxious to 
get over. I am told they have extraordinary stories in Gretna 
about the adventures of those days — I wonder nobody goes and 
picks them up. Thej^ had some fun in those days. I wish I 
Lad lived then. Modern life is too monotonous — don’t you 
think so ?” 

“ I don’t know,” said Shena Van, honestly. 

“ I mean I wish I had lived in those days if I had had the 
chance of running away Avith somebody that made it worth the 
risk. Shena,” said he, “ supposing you had lived at that time, 
don’t you think you would rather have had the excitement of 
that kind of wedding than the ordinary, humdrum sort of affair ?” 


382 


YOLANDE. 


“ I have never thonght anything about it,” said Miss Stewart 
with some precision — as if any properly conducted young 
woman would give a moment’s consideration to the manner in 
which she might wish to be married ! 

“ Look ! look !” said he, jumping up, and involuntarily put- 
ling his hand on her arm. “ Look, Shena! The village is over 
tlicrc — here is the river, see ! — it is the Sark — and the bridge is 
down there, to the left of that house — that house is an inn, the 
last in England on the old coach-road — ” 

She took away her arm, 

“ Ah,” said he, as he sat down, “ many a happy couple were 
glad to find their great l>ig George the Fourth phaeton clattci’. 
ing over the bridge there — the tiiumph after all the risk — ” 

Then he reflected that in a few' minutes’ time they would be 
in Carlisle ; and this made him rather desperate ; for when again 
should he see Shena Van — and Shena Van alone? 

“Can you imagine yourself living at that time, Shena; and 
if I w'ere to ask you to make off for Gretna with me and get 
married, Avhat would you say?” 

“Vou — you have no right to ask mo such a question,” said 
Shena Van, rather breathlessly. 

“ There Avould have been no chance of your saying ‘ yes ’ ?” 
he asked, gently. 

“ I don’t know what you mean,” said she, and she was nerv- 
ously twisting the liiagazine in her liand. “ I — I think you are 
foi’getting. You are forgetting who you are — who I am — and 
everything that — that once happened — I mean, that nothing 
happened — for how could it ? And to ask such a question — 
even in joke — well, I think you have no right to ask me such a 
question, and the absurdity of it is enough answer.” 

“ I did not mean it as a joke at all, Shena,” said he, quite 
humbly, and yet trying to catch sight of her eyes. “ I asked 
you if you could imagine other circumstances — other circuim 
stances in which I might ask you such a question. Of course, 
I am very sorry if I have offended you — ” 

“ I think there has been enough said,” said Miss Stewart, 
quietly, and indeed Avith a good deal of natural dignity. 

Just before they Avere going into Carlisle station, she said: 

“ I hope, Mr. Leslie, you Avon’t misunderstand me, but — but, 
of course Miss Vincent and her friends won’t knoAV Avho yott 
are, and I Avould rather they did not know. There is ahvays 
silly talk going on ; it begins in amusement, and then people 
repeat it and believe it.” 

“ I shall be quite a stranger to you Avhen avc get into liio 


VOLANDE. 


383 


station,” said he. “And in the mean time I will say good-by 
to you ; and you must tell me that we part good friends, 
although you do seem to care so little about those by-gone davs, 
Shena.” ^ 

“Good-by,” said she, holding out her band (but with her 
eyes cast down). “And perhaps I care for them as much as I 
ought ; but one acquires a little common-sense as one growls up. 
I hope you will have a pleasant trip in the yacht, Mr. Leslie.” 

At the station he got out first, and assisted her to alight ; 
tlicn he got a porter for her, and raised his hat to her with the 
air of a perfect stranger, as she disappeared with her friends. 
Then he had his own things i shifted into a first-class smoking 
compartment, and the journey was resumed. 

It was a lonely journey. There was something wrong. He 
already hated the Juliet^ and looked forward with disgust to 
l>eing thrown on the society of a brainless young idiot. Nay, 
this was the matter: why had he not asked Janet Stewart plump 
and plain ? Why had he not asked her to stop at Carstairs 
Junction, and go back with him to Edinburgh or Glasgow, 
where he could easily have found friends to take care of her 
until the special license had been obtained ? Why had he not 
dared his fate ? Sometimes women were captured by the very 
suddenness of the proposal. 

“ And as for the people at Lynn,” he was saying to himself 
during these perturbed meditations, “ why, then they might 
liave had some good occasion to squawk. They might have 
squawked to some good purpose then. But I missed my chance 
— if ever there was one, and now it is this accursed yacht and 
that insufferable young nincompoop !” 

Things did not look altogether serene for the Right Honor- 
able Lord Dartown of Dartown, County Limerick, and Ash wood 
Manor, Berks. 


CHAPTER XLYI. 

A SPY. 

It is quite impossible to describe the gladness and gratitude 
wdth which Yolande read the letter from the Master of Lynn, 
which not only gave her her freedom, but said good-by in such 
a friendly fashion. For once a ray of sunlight fell on a life 
which of late had not been of the bi-ightest. 


884 


YOLANDE. 


“ Yolande, \vhat is the matter? You have had good news 
this morning?” said the mother, coming into the room, and 
noticing the radiant face of the girl. 

“Yes, indeed, mother — the best I liave had for many a day,” 
said she, and she led lier mother to the window, and put her in 
the easy-chair, and patted her shoulder affectionately. “ The 
best news I have had for many a day.” 

“ AVhat is it ? May I ask ?” 

For an instant Yolande hesitated; then she laughed, and put 
the letter in her pocket. 

“ No ; it would be too long to explain. But shortly 1 will 
tell you what it is, mother — why, only that one of the friends 
J know in the Highlands has been generous and kind to me. 
Is it a wonderful thing? Is it new — unexpected?” 

“Ah, you ought to be with them, Yolande: not here, throw'- 
ing away your time on me.” 

“Ridiculous! ridiculous 1” said she, in her French way, and 
then wdth a light step and a bright face she went off to get 
writing materials. 

“ Dear Archie ” (she wrote), — “ It is so good of you. I do 
not deserve it. You have made me very happy; and I hope 
you also will soon be reconciled at home, and everything go 
w^ell. It is a great pleasure you offer me that we should al- 
w^ays continue friends, and I hope it wdll be so ; I know it will 
on my side ; and one may be in Inverness some day, perhaps ? 
— then I should be pleased to see you again, and also your 
sister, and Colonel Graham. But that will be a long time, if at 
all ; for my mother, though she is much better, does not get 
strong as I wdsh, and naturally I remain with her — perhaps for 
always. How could I leave her? But if once she were strong 
enough to travel, then one might perhaps see one’s friends' in 
the Highlands or elsewhere ; and in the mean time it is conso- 
lation to know that they remain your friends, and think of you 
occasionally. Dear Archie, you are really too kind to me, and 
too tlattoring also ; but you can not expect a woman to light 
very hard against that, so I am glad you w’ill have as generous 
an opinion of me as is possible, even if it is exaggerated, and 
perhaps not quite true. I remember your speaking of your 
school-fellow viivy well — is he the most favorable of companions 
for a yachting voyage? I suppose you are going south, for now 
the days are becoming cold, and we are thinking of going away 
to the south also. How strange it would be if my mother and 
I were to be seated on one of the terraces at Monte Carlo, aiid 


YOLANDE. 


885 


you were to come sailing into the harbor below us I You must 
tell me the name of the yacht ; and when we are at Nice or 
Cannes, or such places, I will look in the newspapers for the 
lists, and perhaps hear of you. 

“ This is all I can write to you at the moment, but you must 
believe me that it does not convey to you anything like what I 
feel. You will excuse me — perhaps you will understand. But 
I will not forget your kindness. 

“ Your grateful Yolande. 

“ P.S. — I will do as you wish ^bout not stating any reasons, 
though I am afraid that is only another part of your con- 
sideration and generosity in disguise.” 

She went to get her hat and cloak. 

“ Tais-toi, mon gas, 

Et ne ris pas, 

Tout va de mal en pire,” 

she was humming to herself, most inappropriately, as she put 
them on. And then she went back to her mother. 

“ Will you get ready, mother? I have a letter to post. And 
I want to see if they can get me as much more of that fur as will 
make a hood for a travelling cloak — ah, you have no idea how 
comfortable it is if the weather is cold, and you are on a long 
railway journey.” 

“Why, you spoil me, Yolande — you make a petted child of 
me,” the mother protested. 

“Come, get on your things,” said she, not heeding. “And 
perhaps when we are seeking for the fur I might get a winter 
cloak for Jane. Does she not deserve a little present? She has 
been very attentive — has she not, do you think ?” 

“When she has had the chance, Yolande,” the mother said, 
with a smile. “ But you do everything yourself, child.” 

The alteration ill the girl’s manner after the receipt of that 
letter was most marked. Gladness dwelt in her eyes, and spoke 
in her voice. She grew so hopeful, too, about her mother’s 
health that now, when they went out for a morning stroll among 
the shops, she would buy this or the other small article likely to be 
of use to them in travelling. That was partly why she presented 
Jasie with that winter cloak; Jane was to be their sole attend- 
ant. And now all her talk was about orange groves and palms, 
and marble terraces shaded from the sun, and the gummer-blue 
waters of the south. 

But there was one person who certainly did not regard the 


386 


YOLANDE. 


breaking off of this engagement v/ith equanimity. Immediately 
on receiving the brief note sent from the Station Hotel at Inver- 
ness, Mrs. Graham, astonished and indignant and angry, posted 
over straightway to Lynn, and told her talc, and demanded ex- 
planations. Well, they had no explanations to ofl’er. If it 
were true. Lord Lynn said, indifferently, it was a very good 
thing ; but he did not choose to bother his head about it. Then 
pretty Mrs. Graham had a few words, verging on warmth, with 
her Aunt Colquhoun ; but she quickly saw that that would not 
mend matters. Thereupon she thought she would appeal to 
Yolande herself; and she did so — dating the letter from Lynn 
Towers. 

“My dear Yolande” (she said), — “Is it true? Or has 
Archie been making a fool of us? Of course he is off without 
a word of explanation, and I can not imagine it possible that his 
and your engagement should have been so suddenly broken off, 
and without any apparent cause. Forgive me for interfering, 
dearest Yolande; I know it is no concern of mine, except in so 
far as this goes, that Archie is my brother, and I have a right 
to know whether he acted as he should have done, and as be- 
comes the honor of our family. I have a right to know that. 
At the same time it seems incredible that you and he should have 
parted — and so suddenly — without any warning; for although 
there was some disagreement here, a^lie probably hinted to you, 
still that could have nothing to do with him and you ultimately, 
and he distinctly informed me that his position with regard to 
you was not affected, and would not be affected, by anything 
happening here. I hope I am not giving you pain in making 
these inquiries, dear Yolande ; but I think I have a right to know 
that my brother conducted himself honorably ; for it was through 
us, you may remember, that he made your acquaintance, and 
both Jim and I w^ould consider ourselves in a measure responsi- 
ble if he has behaved badly. But I dare say it is not so serimis 
as that. I kno\v he is impatient of 'worry, and probably he lias 
asked you to — well, I don’t know what he could fairly ask; and 
all I can say is that I hope, if matters are as he says, that he has 
done nothing to cause us reproach. You may well think that we 
shall both — I mean Jim and I— be exceedingly grieved if it is 
true, for w’e both looked forward to having you as our sister and 
friend, and you may depend on it that if there had been any 
temiJorary disagreement in one quarter, that would have been 
more than atoned for in the warmth of the welcome you would 
have got from us. Pray forgive me, dearest Yolande, for beg- 


YOLANDE. 


387 


ging a line from you at your very earliest convenience ; it is not 
idle curiosity, and I trust your answer will be that Archie’s ex- 
aggeration only means that for a while he is leaving you to the 
diities that now occupy you, and that in time everything will he 
as it was. My best love to you, dearest Yolande, froin your 
alieclionate friend, Mary C4raham. 

“ P.S. — Surely it cannot be true, or your father would have 
told mo on the day of his leaving Allnam-ba ? Will you please 
write to Inverstroy ?” 

Yolande remembered her promise to the Master of Lynn, and 
deemed it safest to say as little as possible. So siie merely 
wrote : 

“ My dear Mary, — I hasten at once to say that your broth- 
er’s conduct has been always and throughout most honorable, 
and that in the breaking off of our engagement it has been even 
more — it has been most manly ajid generous. Pray have no 
fears on that head. As for the reasons, it is scarcely worth 
while explaining them, when it is all over and gone now. Do 
you think you need tell me that you would have given me Avel- 
come in the Highlands ? — indeed, I have had experience of that 
already. I hope still to be your friend, and perhaps some day, 
in the Highlands or elsewhere, we may be once more together. 
In the mean time please remember me most kindly to your hus- 
band, and believe me, yours aHeckonatcly, 

‘W'oLAXDE Winterbourne.” 

Yolande now seemed to consider that episode in her life as 
over and done with, and set herself all the more assiduously to 
the service of her mother, who, poor woman ! though she coidd 
not fail to see the greater cheerfulness and content of the girl, 
and probably herself derived some favorable influence from that, 
still remained in a weak and invalidish condition which prevent- 
ed their migration to the south. However, something now oc- 
curred which stopped, once and for all, her recurrent entreaties 
that Yolande should go away to her own friends and leave her 
bv herself. One day, as she was seated in her accustomed easy- 
cliair, looking at the people and the sea and the ships, she sud- 
denly uttered a slight exclamation, and then quickly rose and 
withdrew from the window. 

“Yolande dear I” she exclaimed, in a voice of terror-^“ Yo- 
lande 1” 

“ Yes, mother,” the girl answered, looking calmly up from her 
sewing. 


^88 


YOLANDE. 


And then slic saw that her mother was strangely agitated, and 
instantly she rose and caught her by the hand. 

“ AVhat is it, mother?” 

“ I have seen that man that you know of — Romford.” 

“ Well, what of that?” the girl said, quietly. 

“ But he was looking up at the house, Yolande,” said she, ob- 
viously in great alarm. “ He must know that we are here. He 
must have sought us out.” 

“Very well, and what of that?” said Yolande. And she 
added, with a gentle touch of scorn : “ Does he wish to be asked 
to have some tea wdth us ? I think we are not at home just now.” 

But you don’t understand, child — you don’t understand,” 
said the mother, with a kind of shiver. “ To see him was to 
recall everything. I was in a dream, and now it looks hideous 
to me ; and the thought of his coming here, and wishing to take 
me back to that life, wdien I did not care whether each day w^as 
to be the hist — ” 

“My dear mother,” said Yolande, “is it of much consequence 
what the gentleman washes? It is of more consequence what I 
wish ; and that is that you are to remain w'itli me.” 

“Oh yes, with you, Yolande, with you!” she exclaimed, and 
she eagerly caught both hands of the girl and held them tight. 
“Ahvays with you — always, always! lam not going away 
from you — I dare not go aw^ay. I have asked you to go to your 
friends, and leave me by myself; but I wull not ask it again; I 
am afraid ; if I were alone, he might come and speak to me — 
and — and persuade me that his wufe w'as the one wdio best knew 
how to take care of me. Oh, when I think of it, Yolande, it 
inaddens me !” 

“Then you need not think of it, mother dear,” said the girl, 
pressing her to sit down. “Leave Mr. Romford to me. Oh, I 
will make him content with me, if he chooses to be troublesome. 
Do not fear.” 

“If he should come to the house, Yolande?” 

“The ladies do not receive this afternoon,” she answered, 
promptly, “nor to-morrow afternoon, nor the next day morning, 
nor any other time, when the gentleman calls whom you will de- 
scribe to the landlady and her two girls, and also to Jane. As 
for me, I scarcely saw him — I was too bewildered, and too 
anxious about you, mother, and then at last, when he did come 
near to me, pouf! away he went on the pavement. And as for 
Inm now, 1 do not care for him that P' and she flicked her mid- 
dle finger from the tip of her thumb. 

“ But he may speak to us on the street, child !” 


VOLANDE. 


389 


“ And if we do not wish to be spoken to, is there no protect 
tion ?” said Yolande, proudly. “Come to the window, mother, 
and I will show you something*.” 

“ Oh, no, no !” she said, shrinking hack. 

“ Very well, then, I will tell you. Do you, not know the good- 
natured policeman who told us when the harness w*as wrong at 
the shaft, and put it right for us ? And if we say to him that 
we do not wish to have any of the gentleman’s conversation, is 
it not enough ?” 

“ I do not think I could go hack now,” the mother said, ab- 
sently, as if she were looking over the life, or rather the living 
death, she had led. “ I have seen you. I could not go hack 
and forget you; and be a trouble to you, and to your father.- 
He must be a forgiving man to have let you come to me ; and yet 
not wise, I was content ; and those people were kind to me. 
Why should your life be sacrificed?” 

“ What a dreadful ' sacrifice, then!” exclaimed Yolande, with 
a smile. “ Look around — it is a dreadful sacrifice 1 And when 
we are at Cannes, and at San Kemo, and at Bordighera, it will 
be even more horrible and dreadful.” 

“ But no, no, I can not go back now,” she said. “ The sight 
of that man recalls everything to me. And yet they vvere kind 
to me. I could do as I pleased; and it was all in a kind of 
dream. I seemed to be walking through the aight alwaVvS. 
And indeed I did not like the daytime — I liked to be in my 
own room alone in the evening, with newspapers and books — 
and it was a kind of half-sleep with waking pictures — sometimes 
of you, Yolande — very often of you; but not as you are now^ - 
and then they would come and torture me with telling me hov 
badly I was treated in not being allowed to see you — and then — 
then I did not know what I did. It is terrible to think of.” 

“ Don’t think of it, mother, then.” 

“ It is all before me again,” the wretched woman said, with a 
kind of despair. “ I see what I have been, and what people 
have thought of me. How can I raise myself again ? It is no 
use trying. My husband away from me, my friends ashamed to 
speak of me, my child throwing away her young life to no end 
— why should I try ? — I should be better away — anywhere-r— to 
hide myself, and be no longer an injury and a shame.” 

“Mother,” said Yolande, firmly (for she had had to fight 
those fits of hopelessness before, and knew the way of them well), 
“ don’t talk nonsense. I have undertaken to make you well, and 
I have very nearly succeeded, and I am not going to have my 
patient break down on mv hands, and people say I am a bad 


890 


VOLANDE. 


doctor. I wonder what you would have said if I had called in 
a real doctor, to give you pliysic and all the rest of it, whereas 
I get all kinds of nice tilings for you, and take you out for drives 
and walks, and never a word of medicine mentioned. And I 
don't tbink it is fair, when you are getting on so well, to let 
yourself drop into a fit of despondency, for that will only make 
you worse, and give me so much longer trouble before I have 
you pulled through. For you are not going to shake me off- 
no, not at all — and the sooner you are well, the sooner we ai’e 
off to France and Italy, and the longer you are not well, the 
longer it is you keep me in Worthing, wliich perhaps you will 
not find so cheerful when the winter comes. Already it is cold; 
some morning when you get up you Avill see — what? nothing but 
snow! — everything white, and then you will say it is time to fly, 
and that is right, but why not sooner ?” 

“Well, to be beside you, Yolande,” said the mother, stroking 
the girl’s hand, “is what I live for. If it were not for that, I 
should not care what happened.” 

Yolande professed to treat this Mr. Komford as a person of 
little accoiuit; but she was in her inmost heart a trifle more dis- 
quieted than outwardly she made believe. She shrewdly sus- 
pected that h.e Avas not the sort of gentleman to be disporting 
himself at a Avatering-placc merely for amusement; and she made 
no doubt that, somehoAv or other, he had found out their address, 
and had folloAved them liither in the hope of getting her mother 
once more under his control. As to that, she had no fear ; but, 
to make sure that he had no monetary or other claim that 
could Avarrant his even knocking at the door of the house, she 
resolved to write at once to LaAvrence k, Lang. The ansAver was 
prompt; she got it by the first post next morning; and it said 
that as “our Mr. Lang,” by a fortunate accident, happened to i*e 
at the moment in Brighton, they had telegraphed to him to go 
along and see her ; consequently Miss Winterbourne might expect 
him to call on her during the course of the day. 

This Avas far from being in accordance Avith Yolande’s Avisl\; 
but she could not noAv help it; and so she went to her mother, 
and said that a gentleman Avould probably call that day Avith 
whom she Avanted to have a feAv minutes’ private talk ; and 
Avould the mother kindly remain in her room for that time? 

“ Not — not Romford ?” said she, in alarm. 

“I said a gentleman, mother,” Yolande answered. 

And then a strange kind of glad light came into the mother’s 
face; and she took her daughter’s hands in hers. 

“ Can it be, then, Yolande ? There is one who is dear to you T’ 


YOLANDE. 391 

The girl turned very pale for a second 6y so ; but she forced 
herself to laugh. '' “ ' 

“Nonsense, mother. The gentleman is calling on business. 
It is very inconvenient; but the firm told him to come along 
from Brighton ; and now I can’t prevent him.” 

“ I had hoped it was something more,” said the mother, gen- 
tly, as she turned to her book again. 

Mr, Lang called about half-past twelve. 

“I am very sorry you should have taken so much trouble 
about so small an affair,” said Yolaiide. 

“ But you must understand, Miss Winterbourne,” said the tall, 
white-haired man, with the humorous smile and good-natured 
eyes, “that our firm are under the strictest injunctions to pay 
instant heed to the smallest things you ask of us. You have no 
idea how we have been lectured and admonished. But I grant 
you this is nothing. The man is a worthless fellow, who is 
probably disappointed^ and he may hang about, but you have 
nothing to fear from him. Everything has been paid; we have a 
formal acquittance. I dare say the scoundrel got three times 
what was really owing to him, but it was not a prodigious sum. 
Now what do you want me- to do? I can’t prosecute him for 
being in Worthing.” 

“ No; but what am I to do if he persists in speaking to my 
mother when we are out walking?” 

“ Give him in charge. He’ll depart quick enough. But I 
should say you had little to fear in that direction. Unless he 
has a chance of speaking to your mother alone, he is not likely 
to attempt it at all.” 

“ And that he shall not have ; I can take care of that,” said 
Yolande, with decision. 

“ You really need not trouble about it. Of course if he 
found your mother in the hands of a stranger, what happened 
before might happen now ; that is to say, he would go and try 
to talk her over; would say that she was never so happy as 
when he and liis wife w^ere waiting on her, that they were her 
real friends, and all that stuff. But I don’t think he will tackle 
you,” he added, with a friendly sort of smile. 

“ He shall not find my mother alone,” said Yolande. 

“ I hear everything is going on well?” he ventured to say. 

“ I hope so — I think so,” she answered. 

“ It was risky — I may say, it was a courageous thing for you 
to do, but you had warm friends looking on.” 

She started and looked up, but he proceeded to something 
else. 


392 


YOLANDE. 


“1 suppose I inay/not see Mrs. AVinterbourne — or may I?” 

“I think Yolande. “It would only alarm her, or 

at least excite her, and I am keeping all excitement away from 
her. And if you will excuse me, Mr. Lang, I will not keep 
her waiting. It is so kind of you to have come alono; from 
Brighton.” 

“ I dare not disobey sucb very strict orders,” said he, with a 
smile, as he took up his hat and opened the door. 

She did not ring the bell, however, for the maid-servant; she 
said she would herself see him out, and she followed him down- 
stairs. In the passage she said : 

“ I want you to tell me something, Mr. Lang. I want you 
to tell me who it was who explained to you Avhat you were to 
do for me when I arrived in London, for I think I know.” 

“ Then there can be no harm in telling you, my dear young 
lady. He called again on us, about a couple of weeks ago, on 
his way north, and laid us under more stringent orders than 
ever. Mr. John Melville. Was that your guess?” 

“Yes,” said Yolande, with her eyes downcast, but in per- 
fectly calm tones. “ I thought it was he. I suppose he was 
quite well when you saw him ?” 

“Oh yes, apparently — certainly.” 

“ Good-by, Mr. Lang. It is so kind of you to have taken all 
this trouble.” 

“ Good-morning,” said Mr. Lang, as he opened the door and 
went hi5 way. And he also had his guess. 


CHAPTER XLVII. 

SNOW AND SUNLIGHT. 

Yolande, however, was a strict and faithful guardian; and 
Mr. Romford, no doubt finding it impossible to get speech of 
her mother alone, had probably left the place, for they saw no 
more of him. Indeed, they were thinking of other matters. 
Yolande was anxious to get away to the south, and yet afraid to 
risk the fatigue of travelling on a system obviously so frail as 
her mother’s was. She kept lingering on and on in the hope of 
seeing some improvement taking place, but her mother, though 
much more cheerful in spirits, did not seem to gain in strength ; 
indeed, she seemed physically so weak that again and again 


YOLANDE. 


393 


Yolande postponed tlieir departure. This also had its draw- 
backs, for the weather was becoming more and more wintiy, 
and out-of-door exercise was being restricted. It was too cold 
for driving; Yolande had sent back the pony-carriage. Then 
slie dared not expose her mother to northerly or easterly winds. 
Frequently now she had to go out for her morning walk by 
herself, a brisk promenade once or twice up and down the pier 
being enough to send her home with pink cheeks. At last she 
said to her mother, with some timidity, 

“ I have been thinking, mother, that we might take some 
one’s advice as to whether you are strong enough to bear the 
journey.” 

“ I think I could go,” the mother said. “ Oh yes, I should 
like to try, Yolande, for you seem so anxious about it, and of 
course Worthing must be dull for you.” 

The girl did not mind this reference to herself. 

“ I have been thinking how it could be most easily done, 
mother. I w'ould get a carriage here, and have you nicely 
wrapped up from the cold, and we should drive to Newhaven ; 
that would be more comfortable than the tedious railway 
journey round by Lewes. Then we should choose our own 
time of crossing when the sea was calm; and the railway journey 
from Dieppe to Paris is so much shorter than the Calais route. 
But to Marseilles — that is a terrible long journey.” 

“ I think I could do it, Yolande ; I see you are so anxious to 
get away — and no wonder.” 

“ I am anxious for your sake, mother. But I am afraid to 
take the responsibility. Would you mind my asking some one? 
Would you mind my taking some advice?” 

“But you are the best doctor I have ever had,” said the 
mother, with a smile. “ I would rather take your advice than 
any one’s.” 

“But I am afraid, mother,” she said. And then she added, 
cautiously, “ It was not the advice of a doctor I was thinking of.” 

“ Whose, then ?” 

The girl went and stood by her mother’s side, and put hei 
hand gently on her shoulder. 

“ Mother, my father is fretting that he can be of no service to 
us.” 

“ Oh, no, no, no, Yolande !” the other cried, with a sudden 
terror. “Don’t think of it, Yolande — it would kill me — he will 
never forgive me.” 

“ There is no forgiveness needed, mother ; all that is over and 
forgotten. Mother — ” 


304 


YOLANDE. 


But th« mere mention of this proposal seemed to have driven 
the poor woman into a hind of frenzy. She clung to her daugh- 
ter’s arm, and said in a wild sort of way, 

“ If I saw him, Yolande, I should think he was coming to take 
you away from me — to take you away from me ! It would he 
the old days come hack again — and — and the lawyers — ” 

She was all trembling now, and clinging to the girl’s arm. 

“ Stay with me, Yolande; stay with me. I know I have done 
great harm and injury, and I can not ask him to forgive me; but 
you — I have not harmed you ; I can look into your face with- 
out reproach.” 

“ I will stay with you, mother ; don’t be afraid. Now pray 
calm yourself ; I Avon’t speak of that again, if it troubles you ; 
we shall be just by our two selves for as long as ever you like; 
and as for lawyers, and doctors, or anybody else, Avhy, you shall 
not be allowed to know that they exist*” 

So she gradually got her mother calmed again ; and by-and- 
by, when she got the opportunity, she sat down and wrote to 
her father, saying that at present it was impossible be should 
come and see them, for that the mere suggestion of such a 
thing had violently alarmed and excited her mother, and that 
excitement of any kind did her most serious mischief. She 
added that she feared she would have to take on her own shoul- 
ders the responsibility of deciding whether they should attempt 
the journey ; that most likely they would try to proceed by 
short stages; and that, in that case, she wmiildw^ite to him again 
for directions as to where they should go on arriving in Paris. 

That, indeed, w'as what it came to ; although the girl naturally 
wished to share wutli some qualified person the responsibility of 
the decision. But now, as heretofore, whenever she hinted that 
they ought to call in a skilled physician, merely for a consultation, 
the mother betrayed such a nervous horror of the idea of seeing 
any stranger that the proposal had to be dropped. 

“Why, Yolande, why?” she would say. “I am well enough 
— only a little weak. I shall be stronger by-and-by. What 
could you ask of a doctor ?” 

“ Oh, well, mother,” the girl said, rather A'-aguely, “ one might 
leave it to himself to make suggestions. Perhaps he might be 
of some help — who knows ? There are tonics now, do you see, 
that might strengthen you — quinine, perhaps? — or — ” 

“ No, no,” said she, in rather a sad fashion. “ I hav^e done 
Avith drugs, Yolande. You shall be my doctor; I don’t Avanfc 
any one else. I am in your hands.” 

“ It is too great a responsibility, mother.” 


YOLANDE, 


395 


“You mean to decide wliotlier we leave Worthing?” said the 
mother, clieerfiilly. “Well, I will decide for you, Yolande. 1 
say — let us go.” 

“ We could go slowly — in short distances,” the girl said, 
though tfuily. “ Waiting here or there for fine weather, do you 
see; mother ? For example, we would not set out at this mo- 
ment, for the winds are boisterous and cold. And then, mother, 
if there is fatigue — if you are very tired with the journey, think 
of the long rest and idleness at Nice — and the soft air.” 

“Very well, Yolande; whatever you do will be right. 
And I arn ready to set out with you whenever you please.” 

Yolande now set about making final preparations for leaving 
England ; and amongst the first of these was the writing a letter 
to Mrs. Bell. It was little more than a message of good-by ; 
but still she intimated that she should be glad to hear how af- 
fairs were going on at Gress, and also what was being done 
about Monaglen. And she begged Mrs. Bell’s acceptance of 
the accompanying bits of lace, which she had picked up at some 
chaiitable institution in the neighborhood, and which she thougiit 
would look nice on black silk. 

The answer, which arrived speedily, was as follows: 

Guess, the lltk November. 

“ My dear young Lady, — It was a great honor to me to re- 
ceive the letter from you this morning, and a great pleasure to 
me to know that you arc well, this leaving us all here in the 
same. Maybe I would have taken the liberty to write to yon before 
now, but that 1 had not your address, and Duncan, the keeper, was 
ignorant of it. And I had a mind to ask the Hon. Mrs: Gra- 
liam, seeing her drive past one day on her return; but they glai- 
ket lassies that were to have told me when they saw her come 
along the road again were forgetful, as usual, and so I missed 
the opportunity. My intention was to tell you about Monaglen, 
which you are so kind as to ask about. It is all settled now, 
and the land made over to its rightful possessor; and I may say 
that when the Lord, in His good time, sees fit to take me, 1 will 
close my eyes in peace, knowing that I'have done better with 
w’hat was intrusted to me than otherwise might have happened. 
But in the mean time my mind is ill at ease, and I am not thank- 
ful for such mercies as have been vouchsafed to me, because I 
would fain have Mr. Melville informed of what has been done, 
and yet not a word dare I speak. At the best he is a by-ordi- 
nar proud, camstrary man ; but ever since he has come back 
tbio last hmc he is more unsettled and distant like — not com 


396 


YOLANDE, 


versing with people, as was his custom, but w^orking at all kinds 
of hours, as if his life depended on they whigmaleeries ; and then 
again away over the hills and moors by himself, without even 
the pastime of fishing that used to occupy him. Deed, I tried 
once to tell him, but my brain got into a kind of whuinnilc; I 
could not get out a word; and as he -was like to think me an 
idiwut, I made some excuse about the school-laddies, and away 
he went. Ilowsever, what’s done can not be undone. The lawyers 
vouch for that; and a pretty penny they charged me. But 
Monaglen is his, to have and to hold, whether he wil or no, 
and tbe Melvilles have got their ain again, as the song says. 
And if any one tells me that I could have done better with the 
money I will not gainsay them, for there are wiser heads than 
mine in the world ; but I will say that I had the right to do what 
pleased myself with what belonged to me. 

“Many’s the time I wish that I had an intervener that would 
tell him of it, and take the task off my hands ; for I am sore 
afraid that did I do it myself, having little skill of argument 
or persuasion, he would just be off in a fiuff, and no more to be 
said. For that matter, 1 might be content with things as they 
are, knowing that his father’s land would go to him when iriy 
earthly pilgrimage was come an end; but sometimes my heart is 
grieved for the poor lad, when I’m thinking that maybe he is 
working early and late, and worrying himself into a whey-faced 
condition, to secure a better fiiturq for himself, when the future 
is sure enough if he only kenned. Besides that, I jalouse 
there’s a possibility of his going away again ; for I see there are 
bits of things, that he put together on the day when you, dear 
young lady, left Allt-nam-ba, that he has not unpacked again ; 
and he has engaged the young lad Dairy mple at a permanent 
wage now, seeing that the chiel does very well with the school- 
bairns — though I envy not the mother that had to keep him in 
porridge when he was a laddie. Now that is how w^e are situ- 
ate here, my dear young lad}^ since you have been so kind as 
to remember us; and I would fain be asking a little more news 
about yourself if it w'as not making bold, for many’s the time I 
have wondered whether ye would, come back again to Allt-nam- 
l.)a. It is a rough place for gentle-nurtured people, and but 
little companionship for a young lady ; but I lieard tell the 
shooting was good, and if the gentlemen are coming back, I hope 
you’ll no be kept away by the roughness of the place, for I’m 
sure I would like to have a glint of your face again. And I 
would say my thanks for the collar and cuffs in that beautiful fine 
lace, but indeed there is more in my heart than the tongue can 


YOLANDE. 


897 


speak. It is just too good of ye ; and although such tilings are 
far too fine for an old woman like me, still I’m thinking I’ll be 
putting them on next Sabbath morning, just to see if Mr. Mel- 
ville will be asking if I have taken leave of my five senses. But 
he has not been familiar like since his coming back, which is a 
sorrow to me, that must keep my tongue tied when I would fain 
speak. 

“ This is all at present, dear young lady, from your humble 
servant, Christina Bell.” 

For one breathless second it flashed across Yolande’s brain 
that she would become the “intervener.” V7ould it not be a 
friendly thing to do, as she was leaving England, to write and 
tell him, and to lay an injunction on him not to disappoint this 
kind creature’s hopes? But then she turned away. The past 
was past. Her interests and duties were here. And so — with 
something of a sigh, perhaps — she took to the immediate busi- 
ness of getting ready for the journey ; and had everything so 
prepared that they were ready to start at a moment’s notice, 
whenever the weather was propitious. 

And, indeed, they had fixed definitely the day of their de- 
parture, when, on the very night before, the varying northerly 
winds, that had been blowing with more or less of bitterness for 
sc4ne time, culminated in a gale. It was an unusual quarter — 
most of the gales on that part of the coast coming from the south 
and the southwest; but all the same the wind during the night 
blew with the force of a hurricane, and the whole house shook 
and trembled. Then, in the morning, what was their astonish- 
ment to find the sunlight pouring in at the parlor windows; and 
outside, the world white and hushed under a sheet of dazzling 
snow ! That is to say, as much of the world as was visible — 
the pavement, and the street, and the promenade, and the 
beach ; beyond that the wind-ruffled bosom of the sea was dark 
and sullen in comparison with this brilliant white wonder lying 
all around. And still the northerly gale blew hard ; and one 
after another strangely dark clouds were blown across the sky, 
until, as they got far enough to the south, the sun would shine 
through them whh a strange coppery lustre, and then would 
disappear altogether, and the dark sea would become almost 
black. And then again the fierce wind would hurry on the 
smoke-colored pall to the horizon ; and there would be glimpses 
of a pale blue sky flecked with streaks of white; and the brilliant 
sunlight would be all around them once more, on the boats and 
the shingle and the railings and the snow-whitened streets. 


308 


VOLANDE. 


Now Yoiande's motlier was strangely excited by tlic scene; 
for it confirmed her in a curious fancy she had formed tliat dur- 
ing all the time she had been under the influence of those drugs 
she had been living in a dream, and that she v.'as now making 
the acquaintance again of the familiar features of the world as she 
once had known them. 

“ It seems years and years since I saw the snow,” she said, 
looking on the shining white world in a mild cntrancement of 
delight. “ Oh, Yolande, I should like to see the falling snow — 1 
should like to feel it on my hands.” 

“You are likely to see it soon enough, mother,” said the 
girl, who had noticed how from time to time the thick clouds 
going over shrouded everything in an ominous gloom. “ In the 
mean time I shall go round after breakfast and tell i\lr. Wather- 
ston not to send the carriage : we can't start in a snow-storm.” 

“But why not send Jane, Yolande? It will be bitterly cold 
outside.” 

“ I suppose it will be no colder for me than for her,” Yolande 
said. And then she added, with a smile of confession, “Be- 
sides, I want to see what everything looks like.” 

“Will you let me go with you? May I?” said the mother, 
wistfully. 

“You?” said Yolande, laughing. “Yes, that is likely — that 
is very likely ! You are in good condition to face a gale from 
the northeast, and w^alk through snow at the same time !” 

"When Yolande went out she found it was bitterly cold, even 
though the terrace of houses sheltered her from the northeast 
wind. She walked quickly — and even with a kind of exhilara- 
tion, for this new thing in the world was a kind of excitement; 
and when she had gone and delivered her message, she thought 
she would have a turn or tv/o up and down the pier, for there 
the snow had been in a measure swept from the planks, and 
there was freer walking. Moreover, she had the whole prome- 
nade to herself ; and when she got to the end she could turn to 
find before her the spectacle of the long line of coast and the 
hills inland all whitened with- the snow, while around her the 
sullen-hued sea seemed to shiver under the gusts of wind that 
swept down on it. Walking back was not so comfortable as 
walking out; nevertheless, she took another turn or two, for she 
knew that if the snow began to fall she might be imprisoned for 
the day; and she enjoyed all the natural delight of a sound con- 
stitution in brisk exercise. She had to walk smartly to withstand 
the cold, and the tight against the wind was something; alt^' 
gether, she remained on the pier longer than she had intendc-l. 


YOLANDE. 


399 


Then something touched her cheek, and stung her, as it were. 
She turned and looked : soft, wliite flakes — a few of them only, 
but they were large — were coming, fluttering along and past her ; 
and here and there one alighted on her dress like a moth, and 
hung there. It was strange, for the sunlight was shining all 
around her, and there Avere no very threatening clouds visible 
over the land. But they grew more and more frequent; they 
lit on her hair, and she shook them off ; they lit on her eyelashes, 
and melted moist and cold into her eyes ; at length they had 
given a fairly white coating to the front of the dress, and so she 
made up her mind to make for home, through this bewilderment 
of snow and sunlight. It was a kind of fairy thing, as yet, and 
wonderful and beautiful ; but she knew very well that as soon 
as the clouds had drifted over far enough to obscure the sun, it 
would look much less wonderful and supernatural, and she 
would merely be making her way through an ordinary and some- 
what heavy fall of snow. 

But when she got neater to the house something caught her 
eye there that fllled her with a sudden dismay. Her mother 
was standing in the balcony, and she had her hands outstretched 
as if she were taking a childish delight in feeling the flakes fall 
on her fingers; and when she saw Yolande she waved a pleasant 
recognition to her. Yolande — sick at heart with dread — hur- 
ried to the door ; ran upstairs when she got in, and rushed to 
the balcony. She was breathless; she could not speak; she 
could only seize her mother by the arm, and drag her into the 
room. 

“Why, what is it, Yolande?” the mother said. “I saw you 
coming through the snow. Isn’t it beautiful — beautiful ! It 
looks like dreams and pictures of long ago — I have not felt snow 
on my hands and my hair for so many and many years — ” 

“ blow could you be so imprudent, mother !” the girl said, 
when she had got breath. “ And without a shawl ! Where was 
Jane ? To stand out in the snow — ” 

“It was only for a minute, Yolande,” said she, while the girl 
was dusting the snow from her mother’s shoulders and arms with 
her })ockct-handkorchief. “It was only a minute — and it was 
so strange to see snow again.” 

“ But why ^did you go out? — why did you go out?” the girl 
repeated. “ On a bitterly cold morning like this, and bare-headed 
and bare-necked.” 

“ Well, yes, it is cold outside,” she said, with an involuntary 
sliiver. “ I did not think it would be so cold. There, that will 
do, Yolande; I will sit down by the fire, and get warm again.” 


400 


YOLANDE. 


“ What you ought to do is to have some hot brandy and water, 
and go to bed, and have extra blankets put over you,” said Yo- 
lande, promptly. 

“Oh no; I shall be warm again directly,” said she, though 
she shivered slightly, as she got into the easy-chair by the fire, 
and began chafing her hands, which were red and cold with the 
wet snow. “ It was too much of a temptation, Yolande — that 
is the fact. It was making the acquaintance of the snow again.” 

“ It was more like making the acquaintance of a bad cold,” 
said Yolande, sharply. 

However, she got some thick shawls and put them round her 
mother, and the shivering soon ceased. She stirred up the fire, 
and brought her some illustrated papers, and then went away to 
get some things out again from the portmanteaus, for it was 
clearly no use thinking of travelling in this weather. It had set- 
tled dowm to snowing heavily; the skies \vere dark; there was 
no more of the fairy -land performance of the morning; and so 
Yolande set about making themselves as comfortable as possible 
within-doors, leaving their futui-e movements to be decided by 
such circumstances as should arise. 

But during that evening Yolande’s mother seemed somewhat 
depressed, and also a little bit feverish and uncomfortable. 

“ I should not wonder if you w^ere going to have a very bad 
cold, mother,” the girl said. “ I should not wonder if you had 
caught a chill by going out on the balcony.” 

“ Nonsense, nonsense, child ; it was only for a minute or 
so.” 

“ I wish you would take something hot before going to bed, 
mother. Port-wine negus is good, is it not? I do not know. 
I have only heard. Or hot whiskey and water? Mr. Short- 
lands had three tumblers of it after he fell into the TJisge-nan- 
Sithean, and had to walk the long distance home in wet clothes ; 
and the rugs and shawls we had put on his bed — oh, it is im- 
possible to tell the number.” 

“No, never mind, Yolande,” the mother said. “I would 
rather not have any of these things. But I am a little tired. I 
think I will go to bed now ; and perhaps Jane could ask for an 
extra blanket for me. You need not be alarmed. If I have 
caught a slight cold — well, you say we ought not to start in 
such weather in any case.” 

“Shall I come and read to you, mother?” 

“No, no; why should you trouble? Besides, I am rather 
tired; most likely I shall go to sleep. Now I will leave you to 
your novel about the Riviera; and you must draw in your chair 


YOLANDE. 


401 


to tlie fire ; and soon you will have forgotten that there is such 
a tiling as snow.” 

And so they bade good-night to each other, and Yolande was 
not seriously disturbed. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

A MEETING. 

But next morning the mother was ill — nay, as Yolande in her 
first alarm imagined, seriously ill. She could hardly speak ; her 
hands and forehead were hot and feverish ; she would take no- 
thing in the shape of breakfast ; she only turned away her head 
languidly. Yolande wa>s far too frightened to stay to consult 
her mother’s nervous fancies or dislikes ; a doctor was sent for 
instantly — the same doctor, in fact, who had been called in be- 
fore. And when this portly, rubicund, placid person arrived his 
mere presence in the room seemed to introduce a measure of 
calm into the atmosphere; and that was well. He was neither 
excited nor alarmed. He made the usual examination, asked a 
few questions, and gave some general and sufficiently sensible 
directions as to how the patient should be tended. And then 
he said he would write out a prescription — for this practitioner, 
in common with most of his kind, had retained that simple and 
serene faith in the efficacy of drugs which has survived centuries 
of conflicting theories, contradictions in fact, and scientific doubt, 
and which is perhaps more beneficial than otherwise to the human 
race, so long as the quantities prescribed are so small as to do no 
positive harm. It was aconite, this time, that he chose to ex- 
periment with. 

However, when he followed Yolande into the other room, in 
order to get writing materials, and when he sat down and began 
to talk to her, it was clear that he understood the nature of the 
case well enough ; and he plainly intimated to her that, when a 
severe chill like this had caught the system and promised to 
produce a high state of fever, the result depended mainly on 
the power of the constitution to repel the attack and fight its 
way back to health. 

“ Now I suppose I may speak frankly to you. Miss Winter- 
bourne ?” said he. 


402 


YOLANDE. 


“Oh yes; why not?” said Yolande, who was far too anxious 
to care about formalities. 

“You must remember, then, tliat though you have only seen 
me once before, I have seen you twice. Tiie tirst time you were 
insensible. Now,” said he, fixing Ills eyes on her, “ on that 
occasion I was told a little, but I guessed more. It was to 
frighten your mother out of the habit that you took your first 
dose of that patent medicine. May I assume that ?” 

“ Well, yes,” said Yolande, with downcast eyes — though, in- 
deed, there was nothing to be ashamed of. 

“Now, I want you to tell me honestly whether you believe 
that warning had effect.” 

“ Indeed, I am sure of it,” said Yolande, looking up, and 
speaking with decision. 

“You think that since then she has not had recourse to any 
of those opiates ?” 

“ I am positively certain of it,” Yolande said to him. 

“ I suppose being deprived of them cost the poor lady a strug- 
gle?” he asked. 

“ Yes, once or twice — but that was some time ago. Latterly 
she was growing ever so much more bright and cheerful, bift 
still she w^as weak, and I was hesitating about risking the long 
journey to the south of France. Yes, it is I that am to blame. 
Why did I not go sooner ? Why did I not go sooner ?” she re- 
peated, with tears coming into her eyes. 

“ Indeed you can not blame yourself. Miss Winterbourne,” the 
doctor said. “I have no doubt you acted for the best. The 
imprudence you tell me of might have happened anywhere. If 
you keep the room w^arm and equable, your mother will do as 
well here as in the south of France — until it is safe for you to 
remove her.” 

“But how soon, doctor? — how soon? Oh, when I get the 
chance again I will not wait.” 

“ But you must wait — and you must be patient, and careful. 
It will not do to hurry matters. Your mother is not strong. 
The fight may be a long one. Now, Miss Winterbourne, you 
will send and get tliis prescription made up; and I will call 
again in the afternoon.” 

Yolande went back to her mothers room, and sent away 
Jane; she herself would be nurse. On tiptoe she went about, 
doing what she thought would add to her mother’s comfort; 
noiselessly tending the fire that had been lit, arranging a shutter 
so that less light should come in, and so forth, and so foi-th. 
But the confidence inspired by the presence of the doctor was 


YOLANDE. 


403 


gone now ; a terrible anxiety bad succeeded ; and when at last slic 
sat down in the silent room, and felt that she could do nothing 
more, a sense of helplessness, of loneliness, entirely overcame 
her, and she was ready to despair. Why had she not gone 
away sooner, before this terrible thing happened ? Why had sh.e 
delayed? Ihey might now have been walking hap])ily together 
along some sunny promenade in the South — instead of this — this 
liushcd and darkened room ; and the poor invalid, whom she 
had tended so carefully, and who seemed to be emerging into a 
new life altogether, thus thrown back and rendered once more 
helpless. Why had she gone out on that fatal morning? Wdiy 
had she left her mother alone ? If she had been in the room 
there wmiild have been no venturing into the snow% wdiatever 
dreams and fancies were calling. If she had but taken courage 
and set out for the South a week sooner — a day sooner — this 
would not have happened ; and it seemed so hard that when 
she had almost secured the emancipation of her mother — when 
the undertaking on which she had entered with so much of 
fear, and wmnder, and hope wuis near to being crowned wdth 
success — the wmrk should be undone by so trifling an accident. 
She was like to despair. 

But patience — patience — she said to herself. She had been 
warned, before she had left Scotland, that it was no light 
mfitter that lay before her. If she was tlirowm back into prison, 
as it were, at this moment, the door wmuld be opened some day. 
And, indeed, it was not of her owm liberty she was thinking — 
it was the freedom of light and life and cheerfulness that she 
had hoped to secure for this stricken and hapless creature 
whom fortune had not over-w^ell treated. 

Her mother stirred, and instantly she went to the bedside. 

“What does the doctor say, Yolande?” she asked, appa- 
rently with some difficulty. 

“ Only what every one sees,” she said, with such cheerfulness 
as was possible. “You have caught a bad cold, and you are 
feverish ; but you must d > ev'erytliing that we want you to do, 
and you will fight it ofl in time.” 

“ What kind of day is it outside ?” she managed to ask 
again. 

“ It is fine, but cold. There has been some more snow in the 
night.” 

“If you wish to go out, go out, Yolande. Don't mind me.” 

“But I am going to mind you, mother, and nobody else. 
Hero I am, licie I slay, till you are well again. You shall 
have no other muse.” 


404 


YOLANDE. 


“You will make yourself ill, Yolande. You must go out.” 

She was evidently speaking with great difficulty. 

“ Hush, mother, hush !” the girl said ; “ I am going to stay 
with you. You should not talk any more — it pains you, does 
it not?” 

“ A little.” And then she turned away her head again. “ If 
I don’t speak to you, Yolande, don’t think it is unkind of me. 
I — 1 am not very w^ell, I think.” 

And so the room was given over to silence again, and the 
girl to anxious thoughts as to the future. She had resolved not 
to write to her father until she should know more definitely. 
She would not unnecessarily alarm him. At first, in her sudden 
alarm, she had thought of summoning him at once; hut now 
she had determined to wait until the doctor had seen her mother 
again. If this w'ere only a bad cold, and should show symp- 
toms of disappearing, then she could send him a re-assuring 
message. At present she w^as far too upset, and anxious, and 
disturbed to carefully weigh her expressions. 

About noon Jane stole silently into the room, and handed 
her a letter, and withdrew again. Yolande w’as startled when 
she glanced at the handwriting, and hastily opened the envelope. 
The letter came from Inverness, and was dated the morning of 
the previous day : that was all she noted carefully — the rest 
seemed to swum into her consciousness all at once, she ran her 
eye over the successive lines so rapidly, and with such a breath- 
less agitation. 

“My dear Yolande,” Jack Melville wTote, — “I shall reach 
Worthing just about the same time as this letter. I am coming 
to ask you for a single word. Archie Leslie has told me — quite 
casually, in a letter about other things — that you are no longer 
engaged to him ; and I have dared to indulge in some vague 
hopes — well, it is for you to tell me to put them aside forever, 
or to let them remain, and see wdiat the future has in store. 
That is all. I don’t wish to interfere with your duties of the 
moment — how should I ? — but I can not rest until I ascertain 
from yourself whether or no I may look forward to some dis- 
tant time, and hope. I am coming on the chance of your not 
liaving left Worthing. Perhaps you may not have left; and 1 
beg of your kindness to let me see you, for ever so short a 
time.” 

She quickly and quietly went to the door and opened it. 
Her face was very pale. 


YOLANDE. 


405 


‘‘ Jane 1” 

The maid was standing at the window, looking out; she im- 
mediately turned and came to her mistress. 

“ You remember Mr. Melville,w]io used to come to the lodge ?” 

“ Oh yes, miss.” 

“He will be in Worthing to-day — he will call here — perhaps 
soon — ” 

She paused for a second, in this breathless, despairing way of 
talking, as if not knowing what to say. 

“ He will ask to see me — well — you will tell him I can not see 
him. I can not see him. My mother is ill. Tell him I am 
sorry — but I can not see him.” 

“Oh yes, miss,” said the girl, wondering at her young mis- 
tress’s agitation. 

Then Yolande quietly slipped into the room again— glancing 
at her mother, to see whether her absence had been noticed; and 
her hand was clutching the letter, and her heart beating violently. 
It was too terrible that he should arrive at such a moment — • 
amid this alarm and anxiety. She could not bear the thought 
of meeting him. Already she experienced a sort of relief that 
she was in the sick-room again : that was her place ; there her 
duties lay. And so she sat in the still and darkened room, 
listening with a sort of dread for the ring at the bell below ; and 
then picturing to herself his going away ; and then thinking of 
the years to come, and perhaps his meeting her; and she grew to 
fancy (while some tears were stealing down her cheeks) that very 
likely he would not know her again when he saw her, for she 
knew that already her face was more worn than it used to be, 
and the expression of the eyes changed. When she did hear the 
ring at the bell her heart leaped as if she had been shot; but she 
breathed more freely when the door was shut again. She could 
imagine him walking along the pavement. Would he think her 
unkind ? Perhaps he would understand ? At all events, it was 
better that he was gone; it was a relief to her; and she went 
stealthily to the bedside, to see whether her mother was asleep; 
and now all her anxiety was that the doctor should make his 
appearance soon, and give her some words of cheer, so that she 
should have no need to write to her father. 

This was what happened when Melville came to the door. To 
begin with, he was not at all sure that he should find Yolande 
there, for he had heard from Mrs. Bell that she and her mother 
were leaving England. But when Jane, in response to his ring, 
ing of the bell, opened the door, then he knew that they were 
not gone. 


406 


VOL^ADE. 


“ Miss Winterbourne is still here, then ?” ho said, quicldy, and 
indeed with some appearance of anxiety in the pale, handsome 
face. 

“Yes, sir.” 

He paused for a second. 

“ Will you be good enough to ash her if I can sec her for a 
moment?” he said, at length. “She knows that I meant to call 
on her.” 

“ Please, sir, ^iliss Winterbourne told me to say that she was 
very sorry, but that she can not sec you.” 

He seemed as one stupciiied for a moment. 

“Her mother is ill, sir,” said Jane. 

“ Oh,” he said, a new light breaking in on him — for indeed 
that first blunt refusal, as uttered by the maid, was bewildering. 

“ Not very ill, is she ?” 

“ Well, sir,” said Jane, in the same stolid fashion, “ I think she 
is very ill, sir, but I would not say so to my young mistress, 
sir.” 

“ Of course not — of course not,” he said, absently ; and then 
he suddenly asked, “ Has Miss Winterbourne sent for her 
father ?” 

“I think not, sir. I think she is waiting to hear what the 
doctor says.” 

“ Who is the doctor ?” 

She gave him both the name and address. 

“ Thank you,” said he. “ 1 will not trouble Miss Winterbourne 
with any message.” And with that he left. 

But he sent her a message — some half-hour thereafter. It 
was merely this : 

“Dear Yolande, — I am deeply grieved to have intruded 
upon you at such a time. PYrgive me. I hope to hear better 
news ; but do not you trouble ; 1 have made arrangements so that 
I shall know. — J. M.” 

And Yolande put that note with the other — for in truth slie 
nad carefully preserved every scrap of writing that he had ever 
sent her; and it was with a wistful kind of satisfaction that at 
least he had gone away her friend. It was sometliing — nav, it 
was enough. If all that she wished for in the world could get 
so near to completion as this, then she would ask for nothing 
more. 

The doctor did not arrive till nearly three o’clock, and she 
awaited his verdict with an anxiety amounting to distress. But 


YOLANDE. 


407 


he svould say nothing definite. The fever had increased, cer- 
tainly ; but that was to be expected. She reported to him — as 
minutely as her agitation allowed — how his directions had been 
carried out in the interval, and he approved. Then he begged 
her not to be unduly alarmed, for this fever was the common 
attendant on the catching of a sudden chill ; and with similar 
vague words of re-assurance he left. 

But the moment he had gone she sat down and wrote to her 
father. Fortunately Mr. Winterbourne happened at the mo- 
ment to be in London, for he had come up to make inquiries 
about some railway project thtit his constituents wished him to 
oppose next session ; and he was at the hotel in Arlington Street 
that Yolande knew. 

“Dear Papa,” she said, — “We did not leave yesterday as 
I said we should, for the weather was so severe I was afraid to 
take the risk. And now another thing has occurred: my dear 
mother has caught a very bad cold, and is feverish with it, so 
that I have called in the doctor. 1 hope it will soon go away, 
and we will be able to make the voyage that was contemplated. 
Alas ! it is a misfortune that there was any delay. Now, dear 
papa, you said that you were anxious to be of service to us; and 
if your business in town is over, could you spare a few days to 
come and stay at a hotel in AVorthing, merely that I may know 
you are there, which will re-assure me, for I am nervous and 
anxious, and probably imagining danger when there is none? 
As for your coming here — no, that is not to be thought of ; it 
would agitate my dear mother beyond expression, and now more 
than ever we have to secure for her repose and quiet. AA^ill it 
inconvenience you to come for a few days to a hotel? Your 
loving dauo’hter, Yolande Winterbourne.” 

Mr. AYinterbourne came down next morning — rather guessing 
that the matter was more serious than the girl had represented 
— and went straight to the house. He sent for Jane, and got 
it arranged that, while she took Yolandc’s place in the sick- 
room for a few minutes, Yolande should come down-stairs and 
see him in the ground-fioor parlor, which was unoccupied. It is 
to be remembered that he had not seen his daughter since she 
left the Highlands, 

When Yolande came into the room his eyes lighted up with 
gladness ; but the next minute they were dimmed with tears — 
and the hands that took hers were trembling — and he could 
hardly speak. 


408 


YOLANDR. 


“ Child, child,” said he, in a second or so, “ how you are 
changed! You are not well, Yolande: have you been ill?” 

“ Oh no, papa, I am perfectly well.” 

The strange seriousness of her face ! — wdiere was the light- 
hearted child whose laugh used to be like a ray of sunlight? 
She led him to the window; and she spoke in alow voice, so 
that no sound should carry : 

“ Papa, I want you to call on the doctor, and get his real 
opinion. It tortures me to think that he may be concealing 
something; I sit and imagine it; sometimes I think he has not 
told me all the truth. 1 want to know the truth, papa. AVill 
you ask him ?” 

“ Yes, yes, child — I wull do wdiatever you w^ant,” said he, still 
holdino; her hand, and regarding her with all the old affection 
and admiration. “Ah, your face is changed a little, Yolande, 
but not much, not much — oh no, not much ; but your voice 
hasn’t changed a bit. I have been wondering this many a day 
when I should hear you talking to me again.” 

“ Never mind about me, papa,” said she, quickly. “ I will 
give you the doctor’s address. Which hotel are you staying 
at?” 

He told her as she was wu'iting the doctor’s address for him 
on a card; and then, with a hurried kiss, she was away again 
to the sick-room, and sending Jane down to open the door for 
him. 

As Yolande had desired, he went and saw the doctor, who 
spoke more plainly to him than he had done to the girl of the 
possible danger of such an attack, but also said that nothing 
could be definitely predicted as yet. It was a question of the 
strength of the constitution. Mr. AVinterbourne told him frank- 
ly who he was, what his position was, and the whole sad story ; 
and the doctor perfectly agreed with Yolande that it was most 
unadvisable to risk the agitation likely to be produced if the 
poor woman were to be confronted with her husband. Any 
messages he might wish to send (in the event of her becoming 
worse) could be taken to her; they might give her some mental 
rest and solace ; but for the present the knowledge of his being 
in Worthing was to be kept from her. And to this Mr. AVin- 
terbourne agreed, though he would fain have seen a little more 
of Yolande. Many a time — indeed, every day — he walked up 
and down the promenade, despite the coldness of the weather, 
and always with the hope that he might catch some glint of her 
at the window, should she come for a moment to look at the 
outer world and the wide sea. Once or twice he did so calch 



YOLANDE. 409 

sight of her, and the day was brighter after that. It was like a 
lover. 

As the days passed the fever seemed to abate somewhat, but 
an alarming prostration supervene 1. At length the doctor said, 
on one occasion when Mr. Winterbourne had called on him for 
news, 

“ I think, Mr. Winterbourne, if you have no objection, I should 
like to have a consultation on this case. I am afraid there is 
some complication.” 

“ I hope you will have the best skill that London can afford,” 
said Mr. Winterbourne, anxiously ; for although the doctor 
rather avoided looking him in the face, the sound of this phriise 
was ominous. 

“ Shall I ask Sir to come down ?” he said, naming one of 

the most famous London physicians. 

“ By all means ! And, whatever you do, don’t alarm my 
daughter ! — try to keep her mind at rest — say it is a technical 
point — say anything — but don’t frighten lierP 

“ I will do ijiy best,” the doctor promised; and he added, “I 
will say this for the young lady, that she has shown a devotion 
and a fortitude that 1 have never seen equalled in any sick-room, 
and I have been in practice now for two-and-thirty years.” 

But all the skill in London or anywhere else could not have 
saved this poor victim from the fatal consequences of a few 
moments’ thoughtlessness. The wasted and enfeebled constitu- 
tion had succumbed. But her brain remained clear; and as long 
as she could hold Yolande’s hand, or even see the girl walking 
about the room or seated in a chair, she was content. 

“ I don’t mind dying now,” she said, or rather whispered, on 
one occasion. “I have seen you, and known you; you have 
been with me for a while. It was like an angel that you came 
to me; it was an angel who sent you to me. I am ready to go 
now.” 

“ Mother, you must not talk like that !” the girl exclaimed. 
“ Why,, the nonsense of it ! How long, then, do you expect me 
to be kept waiting for you, before we can start for Bordighera 
together ?” 

“ We shall never be at Bordighera together,” the mother said, 
absently — “never! never! But you may be, Yolandc; and I 
hope you will be happy there, and always; for you deserve to be. 
Ah ycB, you will be happy — surely it can not be otherwise — you, 
so beautiful and so noble-hearted.” 

And at last Yolandc grew to fear^the worst. One evening 


410 


YOLAiYDE. 


slie had sent for her fatlier ; and she went down-stairs and found 
him in the sitting-room. 

“ Yolande, you are as white as a ghost.” 

“ Papa,” she s^iid, keeping a tight guard over herself, “ I want 
you to come up-stairs with me. I have told my mother you 
were coming. She will see you; she is grateful to you for the 
kind messages I have taken to her. I — I have not asked the 
doctors — but — I wish you to come with me. Do not speak te 
her — it is only to see you that she wants.” 

He followed her up the stairs; hut he entered first into the 
room, and he went over to the bedside and took his wife’s hand, 
without a word. The memories of a lifetime were before him 
as he regarded the emaciated cheek and the strangely large and 
brilliant eyes; but all the bitterness w’as over and gone now. 

“ George,” said .she, “ I wished to make sure you had forgiven 
me, and to sa}' good-by. You have been mother as well as 
father to Yolande — she loves you — You-- you will take care 
of her.” 

She closed her eyes, as if the effort to speak had overcome 
hev ; but he still held his wife’s hand in his; and perhaps he was 
thinking of what had been, and of what — far otherwise — might 
have been. 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

ROME. 

It was in the month of January following, when the white 
thoroughfares of Rome were all shining clear in the morning 
sunlight, that A'olandc Winterbourne stood in the spacious vesti- 
bule of the Hotel du Quirinal, waiting while lier father read a 
letter tlnit had just been given him. She was dressed in 
deep mourning; and perhaps that only heightened the contrast 
betw*ecn the clearness and brightness of her English-looking com. 
plexion and ruddy golden hair* and the sallow', foreign-looking 
faces around. And if the ordeal through w’hich she had passed 
had altered her expression somewhat — if it had robbed her for- 
ever of the light laughter and the carelessness of her girlhood — 
it had left in their stead a sweet seriousness of w'omanhood that 
some people found lovable enough. It w'as not her father only 
who saw and was charmci by this grave gentleness of look, as 


YOLANDE. 


411 


an odd incident in this very hotel proved. At tlie time of the 
Winterbournes’ arrival in Rome there happened to he there — • 
and also staying at the Qiiirinal Hotel — a famous French 
painter. Of course every one in the hotel knew who he was, and 
every one pretended not to know, for ho seemed to wish to he 
alone; and he was so hard at \vork, that when he came in for 
liis mid-day meal — which was of the most frugal kind — he 
rarely spent more than ten or twelve minutes over it, and then 
he was off again, only pausing to light a cigarette in the corridor. 
IVell, one day the Winterhournes went as usual into the win- 
ter-garden saloon of the hotel to have a hit of lunch, for they 
were going for a drive somewhere in the afternoon, and they 
were just about to sit down at their accustomed table, when the 
famous artist rose from his table and approached them. He 
was a little man, with a boyish face, but with carew'orn eyes ; 
his manner was grave, and yet pleasant. 

“Pardon me, sir, the liberty ; but may I present myse'f to 
you?” said he, in the queerest of pronunciations — and he held a 
card bctw'een his finger and tliumb. 

“You do mo a great honor, monsieur,” said Mr. Winter- 
bourne, with a lov/ bow, and addressing him in his own tongue ; 

and he managed dexterously to hint that Monsieur had no 

need of a visiting-card with which to introduce himself. 

Meanwhile Yolande had turned aside, under pretence of tak- 
ing off her bonnet; and the great artist, without any circumlo- 
cution, told her father what was the object of his thus desiring 
to make their acquaintance. He was painting a religious sub- 
ject, he said, which had great difficulties for him. He had ob- 
served mademoiselle from time to time. She had so noble an 
air, an expression so tender, so Madonna-like! All that he 
wanted, if the father would grant the request, w'as to be permit- 
ted to sit at their table for a few minutes — to observe more 
closely, to find out what was the peculiar charm of expression. 
AV'ould monsieur forgive a painter, wdio could only plead that it 
was in the interest of his art that he made so bold a request? 

Mr. Winterbourne not only gladly assented, but was greatly 
llattered to hear such praise of Yolande from so distinguished 
a man; and so she was immediately summoned, and introduced, 
and they all three sat dowm to the little table, and had their 
lunch together. Yolande was in happy ignorance that she woas 
being studied or examined in any way whatever; and he took 
good care not to let her know. This little, sad-eyed man 
proved a cheerful enough companion. He talked about any- 
thing and everything; and on one occasion Yolande had the 


412 


YOLANDE. 


liappincss of being able to add to liis knowledge. He was say- 
ing how the realistic decorations on the walls of this saloon — 
the blue skies, the crystal globes filled with swimming fish and 
suspended in mid-air, the painted balconies, and shrubs, and 
what not — would shock the severe theorists who maintain that 
in decoration natural objects should be represented only in a 
conventional manner; and he was saying that nevertheless this 
literal copying of things for the purposes of decoration had a 
respectable antiquity — as doubtless mademoiselle had observed 
in the houses of Pompeii, where all kinds of tricks in perspec- 
tive appeared on flat surfaces — and that it had a respectable 
authority — as doubtless mademoiselle had observed in the Log- 
gie, where Raphael had painted birds, beasts, or fishes, anything 
that came ready to his hand or his head, as faithfully and 
minutely as drawing and color could reproduce them. 

“I saw another thing than that at Pompeii,” said she, with a 
slight smile. 

“Yes?” he said; and she did not know that all the time he 
was regarding the beautiful curve of the short upper lip, and 
observing how easily the slight pensive droop of it could be 
modulated into a more cheerful expression. 

“ I had always imagined,” said she, “ that veneering and 
wickedness like that were quite modern inventions. Don’t they 
say so ? Don’t they say that it is modern depravity that paints 
common v/ood to make it like oak, and paints plaster to re- 
semble marble ? But in Pompeii you will also find that wicked- 
ness — yes, I assure you, I found in more than one house beau- 
tiful black marble with yellow or white veins — so like real 
marble that one would not suspect — but if you examined it 
where it was broken you would find it was only plaster, or a 
soft gray stone, painted over.” 

“ indeed,- mademoiselle,” said he, laughing, “ they were a 
wicked people who lived in Pompeii ; but 1 did not know they 
did anything so dreadful as that.” 

This was the beginning of an acquaintanceship that lasted 
during their stay in Rome, but was limited to this brief chat in 
the middle of the day ; for the famous Frenchman was the 
most devoted of workers. And then, when he heard that the 
Winterbournes were likely to leave Rome, he besought the 
father to allow Yolande to give two or three sittings to a young 
American artist, a friend of his, who was clever at pastels, and 
had a happy knack in catching a likeness. As it turned out 
that Monsieur did not wish merely to procure a commis- 

sion for his brother- artist, but w^anted to have the sketch of 


YOLANDE. 


413 


llic beautiful young Englisli lady for himself, Mr. Winterbourne’ 
hesitated, but Yolande volunteered at once, and cheerfully; for 
they had already visited the young American’s studio, and been 
allowed to hunt through his very considerable collection of 
hric-a-brac — Eastern costumes, old armor, musical instruments, 
Moorish tiles, and the like. It was an amusement added to the 
occupations of the day. Besides, there was one of the most 
picturesque views in Rome from the windows of that lofty gar- 
ret. And so Yolande sat contentedly, trying the strings of this 
or that fifteenth-century lute, while the young American was 
working away with his colored chalks ; and Mr. Winterbourne, 
having by accident discovered the existence, hitherto unsuspect- 
ed, of a curious stiletto in the hollow handle of a Persian war- 
axe, now found an additional interest in rummaging among 
the old weapons which lay or hung everywhere about the 
studio. 

And so we come back to the morning on which Yolande was 
standing at the entrance to the hotel, waiting for her father to 
read his letter. When he had ended he came along briskly to 
her, and put his arm within hers. 

“Now, Yolande,” said he, “do you think Mr. Meteyard 
could get that portrait of you finished off to-day ? Bless my 
soul, it wasn’t to have been a portrait at all ! — it was only to 
have been a sketch. And he has kept on niggling and nig- 
gling away at it — why ? Well, I don’t know why — unless — ” 

But he did not utter the suspicion that had crossed his mind 
once or twice. It was to the effect that Mr. Meteyard did not 
particularly want to finish the sketch, but would rather have the 
young English lady continue her visits to his studio — where he 
always had a little nosegay of the choicest flowers awaiting 
her. 

“What is the hurry, papa?” she smd, lightly. 

“ Well, here is a letter from Shortlands. He has just started 
for Venice. If we are to meet him there we should start to- 
morrow for Florence. There isn’t much time left now before 
the opening of Parliament.” 

“ Then let us start to-morrow morning,” said she, promptly, 
“ even if I have to sit the whole day to Mr. Meteyard. But I 
think this is the only time we have ever been in Rome without 
having driven out to the Baths of Caracalla.” 

“ I have no doubt,” said he, “ that the Baths of Caracalla 
will last until our next visit. So come away, Yolande, and let’s 
hurry up Mr. Meteyard — ‘ yank him along,’ I believe, is the 
proper phrase.” 


414 


YOLAiVnE. 


So they went out together into the clear white sunlight. 

“ And here,” said he, discontentedly, as they were going 
along the street of the Quattro Fontane, “is Shortlands ap- 
pointing to meet us in Venice at the Hotel. I’m not go- 
ing to the Hotel ; not a bit of it !” 

“ Why, papa, you know that is where Desdemona was buried !” 
she exclaimed. 

“ Don’t I know !” said he, with a gloomy sarcasm. “ Can 
you be three minutes in the place without being perfectly con- 
vinced of the fact ? Oh yes, she was buried there, no doubt. 
But there was a little too much of the lady the last time wo 
were there.” 

“ Papa, how can you say that !” she remonstrated. “ It is no 
worse than the other ones. And the parapet along the Canal 
is so nice.” 

“ I am going to Danieli’s,’’ he said, doggedly. 

“ I hope we shall get the same rooms we used to have, with 
the balcony,” said she ; “ and then we shall see whether the 
pigeons have forgotten all I taught them. Do you remember 
how cunning they became in opening the paper-bags — and in 
searching for them all about the room ? Then I shouldn't 
wonder if we were to see Mr. Leslie at Venice. In the last note 
I had from him he said they were going there ; but he seemed 
dissatisfied with his companion, and I do not know whether 
they are still together.” 

“ Would you like to meet the Master at Venice?” said he, 
regarding her. 

A trifle of color appeared in her cheeks, but she answered, 
cheerfully, 

“ Oh yes, very much. It would be like a party of old times 
— Mr. Shortlands, and he, and ourselves, all together.” 

“ Shortlands has some wonderful project on hand — so he 
hints — but he does not say what it is. But we must not at- 
tempt too much. I am afraid you and I are very lazy and idle 
travellers, Yolande.” 

“ I am afraid so, papa.” 

“At all events,” said he, as they were going dowm the stops 
of the Piazza di Spagna — which are no longer, alas ! adorned 
by picturesque groups of artists’ models — “ at all events, I must 
be back at the beginning of the session. They say the Queen 
is going to open Parliament in person this year. Now, there 
would be a sight for you ! That is a spectacle worth going to 
see.” 

“ Ah !” she said, with a quick interest, “ am I to bo allow ed 


YOLANDE. 


415 


to go to the House of Commons after all ? Shall I hear you 
make a speech? Shall I be in the grill — is it the grill they call 
it ?’■ 

“ No, no, you don’t understand, Yolandc !” said he. “ It is the 
ceremony of opening Parliament. It is in the House of Lords ; 
and the Queen is in her robes ; and everybody you ever heard 
of in England is there — all in grand state. I should get you a 
ticket, by hook or by crook, if I failed at the ballot ; I heard 
that one was sold for £40 the last time — but maybe that was 

romance. But I remember this for fact, that when Lord 

returned from abroad, and found every available ticket disposed 
of, and couldn’t get one anyhow, he was in a desperate state be- 
cause his wife insisted on seeing the show ; and when he went 

to an official, and said that, no matter how. Lady must 

and should be admitted, that blunt-spoken person told him that 
he might as well try to get her ladyship into the kingdom of 
Heaven. But we’ll mamage it for you, Yolande. We’ll take 
it in time. And if we can’t secure it any other way, we’ll get 
you into the Reporters’ Gallery, as the representative of a ladies’ 
newspaper.” 

When they liad climbed up to the altitudes of the young 
artist’s studio, which was situated in one of the narrowest 
streets between the Piazza di Spagna and the Corso, they found 
]Mr. Meteyard rather dismayed at the prospect of their leaving 
Rome so soon. It was not entirely a question of finishing the 
portrait. Oh yes, he said, he could get the sketch finished well 
enough — that is, as well as he was likely to be able to do it. 
But he had no idea that Mr. and Miss Winterbourne were going 
away so soon. Would they dine with him at his hotel that 
evening? He was coming to England soon; might he call and 
see them ? And would Mr. Winterbourne take with him that 
Persian axe in the handle of which he had discovered the 
stiletto? And would Miss Winterbourne allow him to paint for 
her a replica of a study of a Roman girl’s head that she seemed 
rather to like, and he would have it forwarded to England, and 
be very proud if she would accept it? 

Alas ! alas ! this youth had been dreaming dreams ; and no 
doubt that was the reason of his having dawdled so long over a 
mere sketch in crayons. But he was not wounded unto death. 
It is true, he covered himself with reproaches over the insuffi- 
ciency of the portrait — although it was very cleverly done and 
an incontestably good likeness ; and be gave them at his 
hotel that evening a banquet considerably beyond what a young 
painter is ordinarily supposed to be able to aSord; and the 


416 


YOLANDE. 


next morning, although the train for Florence leaves early, there 
he was, with such a beautiful bouquet for the young lady ! 
And he had brought her eau-de-Cologne, too, for the journey, 
and fruit, and sweets (all this was ostensibly because he was 
grateful to her for having allowed him to make a sketch of her 
for his friend the famous French painter) ; and when at last the 
train went away out of the station he looked after it sadly 
enough. But he was not inconsolable, as events proved; for 
within three months of this sad parting he had married a rather 
middle-aged contessa, who liad estates near Terracina, and a 
family of four daughters by a former husband ; and when the 
Winterbournes next saw him he was travelling en (jargon through 
the Southern English counties, along with two Scotch artists, 
who also — in order tliat nothing should interfere with their im- 
passioned study of Nature — had left their wives behind them. 


CHAPTER L. 

VENICE. 

John Shortlands, however, was delayed by some business 
in Paris, and the Winterbournes arrived in Venice first. They 
went to Danieli’s, and secured the rooms which were familiar to 
them in former days. But Yolande found that the pigeons had 
forgotten all she had ever taught them ; and she had to begin 
again at the beginning — coaxing them first by sprinkling maize 
on the balustrade of the balcony ; then inveigling them down 
into the balcony itself ; then leaving the large windows open, 
and enticing them into the room ; and, finally, educating them 
so that they would peck at any half-folded packet they found 
on the stone floor, and get at the grain inside. The weather 
happened to be fine, and father and daughter contentedly set 
about their water-pilgrimages through the wonderful and strange 
city that never seems to lose its interest and chaim for even 
those who know it most familiarly, while it is the one thing in 
the world that is safe never to disappoint the new-comer, if he 
has an imagination superior to that of a hedgehog. There were 
several of Mr. Winterbourne’s parliamentary friends in Venice 
at this time, and Yolande was very eager to make their 
acquaintance; for now, with the prospect before her of being 
allowed to go down occasionally and listen to the debates. 


YOLANDE. 


417 


she wislied to become as familiar as was possible with the 
personnel of the House. She could not liouestly say that 
these legislators impressed her as being persons of extraordinary 
intellectual force, but they were pleasant enough companions. 
Some of them had a vein of facetiousness, while all of them 
showed a deep interest — and even sometimes a hot-headed 
partisanship — when the subject of cookery and the various 
tables d'litte happened to come forward. 

Then, one night when they had, as usual after dinner, gone 
round in their gondola to the hotel where Mr. Shortlands was 
expected, they found that that bulky North-countryman had 
arrived, and was now in the saloon, quite by himself, and 
engaged in attacking a substantial supper. A solid beefsteak 
and a large bottle of Bass did not seem quite in consonance 
Avith a moonlight night in Venice; but John Shortlands held 
to the “ coelum, non animum” theory : and when he could get 
Dal escroft fare, in Venice or anywhere else, he preferred that 
to any other. He received the Winterbournes with great cor- 
diality; and instantly they began a discussion of their plans 
for filling in the time before the opening of Parliament. 

“ But what is the great project you were so mysterious about ?” 
Mr. Winterbourne asked. 

“Ay, there’s something, now,” said he, pouring out another 
tumblerful of the clear amber fluid. “ There’s something worth 
talking about. I’ve taken a moor in Scotland for this next 
season ; and Yolande and you are to be my guests. Tit for 
tat’s fair play. I got it settled just before I left London.” 

“ Whereabouts is it?” Mr. Winterbourne asked again. 

“ Well, when it’s at home they call it Allt-nam-ba.” 

“You don’t mean to say you’A^e taken Allt-nam-ba for this 
year ?” 

“ But indeed I have. Tit for tat’s fair play; and, although 
the house won’t be as well managed as it was last year — for we 
can’t expect everything — still, I hope Ave’ll have as pleasant a 
time of it. Ay, my lass,” said he, regarding Yolande, “ you 
look as if a breath of mountain air would do ye some good — 
better than wandering about foreign towns. I'll be bound.” 

Yolande did not answer; nor did she express any gratitude 
for so kind an invitation ; nor any gladness at the thought of 
returning to that home in the far mountain wilderness. She 
sat silent — perhaps also a trifle paler than usual — while the two 
men discussed the prospects of the coming season. 

“ I’ll have to send Edwards and some of them up from 
Dalescroft; though where they are to get beds for themselves 


418 


YOLANDE. 


T can’t imagine,” John Shortlands said. “ Won’t my fine 
gentleman turn up his nose if he has to take a room in the 
bothy! By-the-way, my neighbor Walkley — you remember 
him, Winterbourne, don’t ye? — has one o’ those portable zinc 
houses that he bought some two or three years ago when he 
leased a salmon-river in Sutherlandshire. I know he hasn’t 
used it since, and I dare say he’d lend it to me. It could easily 
be put up behind the lodge at Allt-narn-ba; and then they'd 
have no excuse for grumbling and growling.” 

“But why should you send up a lot of English servants, wlio 
don’t know wEat roughing it in a small shooting-box is like?” 
said Mr. Winterbourne. “Why should you bother? We did 
very well last year, didn’t we ? Why shouldn’t you have exactly 
the same people — and here is Yolande, who can set the machine 
going again — ” 

“ There you’ve exactly hit it,” said Shortlands. “ For that is 
precisely what Yolande is not going to do, and not going to be 
allowed to do. It’s all very well for an inhuman father to let 
his daughter slave away at grocers’ accounts. My guest is going 
to be my guest, and must have a clear, full holiday as well as 
any of us. I don’t say that she didn’t do it very well — for I 
never saw a house better managed — everything punctual — every- 
thing well done — no breaking down — just what you wanted 
always to your hand ; but I say that, this year, she must have 
her holiday like the rest. Perhaps she needs it more than any 
of us,” he added, almost to himself. 

It was strange that Yolande made no offer — however formal 
— of her services, and did not even thank him for his considera- 
tion. No; she sat mute, her eyes averted; she let these two 
discuss the matter between>-themselves. 

“ I am paying an additional £80,” said Shortlands, “ to have 
tlie sheep kept off, so that we may have a better chance at the 
deer. Fancy all that stretch of land only able to provide £80 
of grazing ! I wonder what some of the fellows on your side 
of the House, Winterbourne, would say to that? Gad, I'll tell 
you, now, Avhat Fd like to see: I’d like to see.the six hundred 
and sixty-six members of the House of Commons put on to Allt- 
narn-ba, and compelled to get their living off it for five years.” 

“ They wouldn’t try,” said his friend, contemptuously. 
“They’d only talk. One honorable member would make a 
speech three columns long to prove that it was the duty of the 
right honorable gentleman opposite to begin rolling off a few 
granite bowlders; and the right honorable gentleman opposite 
would make a speech six columns long to show that there was 


YOLANDE. 


419 


no parliamentary precedent for such a motion; and an Irishman 
would get up to show that any labor at all expended on a Scotch 
moor was an injury done to the Irish fisheries, and another rea- 
son why the Irish revenues should be managed by a committee 
of his countryman meeting in Dublin. They’d talk the heather 
bare before they’d grow an ear of corn.” 

“ By-the-way,” said John Shortlands, who had now finished his 
supper and was ready to go outside and smoke a pipe in the 
balcony overlooking the Grand Canal, “ I wonder if I shall be 
able to curry favor with that excellent person, Mrs. Bell ?” 

“But why?” said Yolande, speaking for the first time since 
this Allt-nam-ba project was mentioned. 

“ Oh, that she might perhaps give Edwards and them a few 
directions when they go to get the place ready for us. I dare 
say they will find it awkward at first.” 

“I am sure Mrs. Bell will be very glad to do that,” Yolande 
said at once. “ If you like I will write to her when the time 
comes.” 

“ She would do it for your sake, anyway,” he said. “ Well, 
it would be odd if we should have just the same party in the 
evenings that we used to have last year. They were very snug, 
those evenings — I suppose because we knew we were so far out 
of the world, and a small community by ourselves. I hope Jack 
Melville will still be there — my heart warmed to that fellow ; 
he’s got the right stuff in him, as we say in the North. And 
the Master — we must give the Master a turn on the hill — I have 
never seen his smart shooting that you talked so much ^bout, 
Winterbourne. Wonder if he ever takes a walk up to the lodge ? 
Should think it must be pretty cold up there just now ; and 
cold enough at Lynn, for the matter of that.” 

“But Mr. Leslie isn’t at Lynn, is he?” said Yolande, sud- 
denly. 

“ Where is he, then ?” 

“ He had started on a yachting cruise when I last heard from 
him,” Yolande said. “ Why, we had half hoped to find him in 
Venice; and then it would have been strange — the Allt-nam-ba 
party all together again in Venice. But perhaps he is still at 
Naples — he spoke of going to Naples.” 

“I don’t know about Naples,” said Shortlands, “but he was 
in Inverness last week.” 

“ In Inverness ! No ; it is impossible !” 

“ Oh, but it is certain. He wrote to me from Inverness about 
the taking of the shooting.” 

“ Not from Lynn ?” said Yolande, rather wondcringly. 


420 


VO LA A' BE. 


“ No. He said in liis letter that he had happened to call in 
at Macpherson’s office — tliat is their agent, you know — and had 
seen the correspondence about the shooting ; and it was then 
that lie suggested the advisability of keeping the sheep off Allt- 
nam-ba.” 

“It is strange,” Yolande said, thoughtfully. “But he was 
not well satisfied with his companion — no — not at all comfort- 
able in the yacht — and perhaps he went back suddenly.” And 
then she added — for she was obviously puzzled about this mat- 
ter — “Was he staying in Inverness?” 

“ Indeed I don’t know,” was the answer. 

“ Did he write from the Station Hotel ?” she asked again, 
glancing at him. 

“ No ; he wrote from Macpherson’s office, I think. You know 
lie used often to go up to Inverness, to look after affairs.” 

“ Yes,” said Yolande, absently : she was wondering whether 
it was possible that he still kept up that aimless feud with his 
relatives — aimless, now that the occasion of it was forever re- 
moved. 

And then they went out on to the wide balcony, where the peo- 
ple were sitting at little tables, smoking cigarettes and sipping 
their coffee ; and all around was a cluster of gondolas that had 
been stopped by their occupants in going by, for in one of the 
gondolas, moored to the front of the balcony, was a party of 
three minstrels, and the clear, penetrating, fine-toned voice of a 
woman rose above the sounds of the violins, and the guitar, with 
the old familiar 

“ Mare si placido, 

Vento si caro 
Scordar fa i triboli 
A1 marinaro” 

■ — and beyond this dense cluster of boats — out on the pale wa- 
ters of the Canal — here and there a gondola glided noiselessly 
along, the golden star of its lamp moving swiftly ; and on the 
other side of the Canal the Church of Santa Maria della Salute 
thrust its heavy masses of shadow out into the white moonlight. 
They were well acquainted with this scene ; and yet the wonder 
and charm of it never seemed to fade. There are certain things 
that repetition and familiarity do not affect — the strangeness of 
the dawn, for example, or the appearance of the first primrose 
in the woods; and the sight of Venice in moonlight is another 
of these things — for it is the most mysterious and the most 
beautiful picture that the world can show. 


YOLANDE. 


421 


By-and-by the music ceased ; there was a little collection of 
money for the performers ; and then the golden stars of the 
gondola stole away in their several directions over the placid 
waters. Mr. Winterbourne and Yolande summoned theirs also, 
for it was getting late ; and presently they were gliding swiftly 
and silently through the still moonlight night. 

“Papa,” said Yolande, gently, “I hope you will go with Mr. 
Shortlands in the autumn, for it is very kind of him to ask you ; 
but I would rather not go. Indeed, you must not ask me to go. 
But it will not matter to you ; I shall not weary until you come 
back ; I will stay in London, or wherever you like.” 

“Why don’t you wish to go to Allt-nam-ba, Yolande?” said 
he. 

There was no answer. 

“ I thought you were very happy up there,” he said, regarding 
her. 

But, though the moonlight touched her face, her eyes were 
cast down, and he could not make out what she was thinking — 
perhaps even if her lips were ^tremulous he might have failed to 
notice. 

“ Yes,” said she, at length, and in a rather low voice, “ perhaps 
I was. But I do not wish to go again. You will be kind and 
not ask me to go again, papa ?” 

“ My dear child,” said he, “ I know more than you think — • 
a great deal more than you think. Now I am going to ask you 
a question: if John Melville were to ask you to be his wife, 
would you then have any objection to going to Allt-nam-ba?” 

She started back, and looked at him for a second, with an 
alarmed expression in her face ; but the next moment she had 
dropped her eyes. 

“ You know you can not expect me to answer such a question 
as that,” she said, not without some touch of wounded pride. 

“But he has asked you, Yolande,” her father said, quietly. 
“ There is a letter for you at the hotel. It is in my writing-case ; 
it has been there for a month or six weeks ; it was to be given 
you whenever — well, whenever I thought it most expedient to 
give it to you. And I don’t see why you shouldn’t have it now 
— as soon as we go back to the hotel. And if you don’t want 
to go to the Highlands, for fear of meeting Jack Melville, as I 
imagine, here is a proposal that may put matters straight. Will 
it?” 

Her head was still held down, and she said, in almost an in- 
audible voice, 

“ Would you approve, papa ?” 


422 


YOLANDE. 


“ Nay, I’m not going to interfere again !” said he, with a laugh. 

“ Choose for yourself. I know more now than I did. I have 
had some matters explained to me, and I have guessed at others; 
and I have a letter, too, from the Master — a very frank and 
honest letter, and saying all sorts of nice things about you, 
too, Yolande — yes, and about Melville, too, for the matter of 
that. I am glad there will be no ill-feeling, whatever happens. 
So you must choose for yourself, child, without let or hinderance 
— whatever you think is most for your happiness — what you 
most wish for yourself — that is what I approve of — ” 

“ But would you not rtther that I remained wdth you, papa ?” 
she said, though she had not yet courage to raise her eyes. , 

“ Oh, I have had enough of you, you baggage !” he said, 
good-naturedly. “ Do you expect me ahvays to keep dragging 
you with me about Europe ? Haven’t w e discussed all that 
before ? Nay, but, Yolande,” he added, in another manner, ‘‘ fol- 
low what your own heart tells you to do. That will be your 
safest guide.” 

They reached the hotel, and when they ascended to their suite 
of rooms he brought her the letter. She read it — carefully and 
yet eagerly, and wdth a flushed forehead and a beating heart — 
wdiile he lit a cigarette and w^ent to the window, to look over at 
the moonlit walls and massive shadows of San Giorgio. There 
was a kind of joy in her face ; but she did not look up. She 
read the letter again — and again ; studying the phrases of it ; 
and ahvays wdth a w^armth at her heart — of pride, and gratitude, 
and a desire to say something to some one who was far rw’ay. 

“Well?” her father said, coming back from the window^, and 
appearing to take matters very coolly. 

She went to him, and kissed him, and hid her face in his 
breast. 

“ I think, papa,” said she, “ I — I think I will go with you to 
Allt-nam-ba.” 


CHAPTER LI. 

CONCLUSION. 

Now, it is not possible to wind up this history in the ap- 
proved fashion, because the events chronicled in it are of some- 
what recent occurrence — indeed, at the present w riting the Win- 
terbournes and John Shortlands are still looking forward totheii 


VOLANDE. 


423 


fliglit to Allt-nam-ba, when Parliament has ceased talking fof 
the year. But at least the story may be brought as far as possb 
ble “ up to date.” And first, as regards the Master of Lynn. 
When, on that evening in Venice, Yolande had imagined that he 
was in Naples, and John Shortlands had aflSrmed that he was in 
Inverness, he was neither in one nor the other. He was in a 
hotel in Princes Street, Edinburgh, in a sitting-room on the first 
floor, lying extended on a sofa, and smoking a big cigar, while a 
cup of coffee that had been brought him by affectionate hands 
stood on a small table just beside him. And Shena Van, having in 
vain cudgelled her brains for fitting terms of explanation and 
apology, which she wished to send to her brother, the Professor, 
had risen from the writing-desk and gone to the window ; and 
was now standing there contemplating the wonderful panorama 
without — the Scott monument, touched with the moonlight, the 
deep shadows in the valley, the ranges of red windows in the 
tall houses beyond, and tjhe giant bulk of the Castle Hill reach- 
ing away up into the clear skies. 

“ Shena,” says he, “ what o’clock is it ?” 

“A quarter past nine,” she answers, dutifully, with a glance 
at the clock on the chimney-piece. 

“ Capital I” he says, with a kind of sardonic laugh. “ Excel- 
lent ! A quarter past nine. Don’t you feel a slight vibration, 
Shena, as if the earth were going to blow up ? 1 wonder you 

don’t tremble to think of the explosion !” 

“ Oh yes, there will be plenty of noise,” says Sliena Van, con- 
tentedly. 

“ And what a stroke of luck to have the Grahams at Lynn ! 
Bagging the whole covey with one carriage ! It will soon be 
twenty past. I can see the whole thing. They haven’t left the 
dining-room yet; his lordship must always open the newspapers 
himself ; and*^ the Avomen-folk keep on, to hear whether Queen 
Anne has come alive or not. Twenty past, isn’t it ? ‘ Hang 

that fellow, Lammer ! ’ his lordship growls. ‘ He’s always late. 
Drinking wdiiskey at Whitebridge, I suppose. I’ll send him 
about his business — that’s what it’ll come to.’ Then his lord- 
ship has another half-glass of port-wine; and Polly thinks she’ll 
run up-stairs for a minute to see that the blessed baby is all 
right; and we’ll say she’s at the door when they hear wheels 
outside, and so she stands and waits for the letters and papers. 
All right ; don’t be in a hurry, Polly ; you’ll get something to 
talk about presently.” 

He raised himself and sat up on the sofa, so as to get a 
glimpse of the clock opposite; and Shena Vhn — whose jn-oper 


424 


YOLANDE. 


title by tins time was Janet Leslie — came and stood by him, and 
put her hand on his shoulder. 

“Will they be very angry, Archie?” she says. 

He had his eye fixed on the clock. 

“ By Jove,” he says, “ I wish I was one of those fellows who 
write for the stage ; I would tell you what’s happening at this 
very minute, Shena ! I can see the whole thing — Polly gets the 
letters and papers, and goes back — ‘ Papa, here is a letter from 
Archie — from Edinburgh — what is he doing in Edinburgh ? ’ 
And then his papaship opens the letter — ‘ My dear father, — I 
have the honor to inform you — ’ ‘ What ! ’ he roars, like a stag 

lost in the mist. Why, don’t you hear them, Shena ? — they’re 
jdl at it now — their tongues going like wild-fire — Aunty Tab 
swearing she knew it would come to this — I was never under 
proper government, and all the rest — Polly rather inclined to say 
it serves them right, but rather afraid — Graham suggesting that 
they’d better make the best of it, now it couldn’t be helped — ” 
Oh, do you think he’ll say that, Archie ?” said she, anx- 
iously. “Do you think he’ll be on our side?” 

“ My dear girl,” said he, “ I don’t care the fifteenth part of a 
brass farthing which of them, or whether any one of them, is 
on our side. Not a bit. It’s done. Indeed, I hope they’ll 
liowl and squawk to their hearts’ content. I should be sorry if 
they didn’t.” 

“ But you know, Archie,” said Shena Van — \vho had her 
own little share of worldly wisdom — “ if you don’t get recon- 
ciled to your friends, people will say that you only got married 
out of spite.” 

“Well, let them,” said he, cheerfully. “You and I know 
better, Shena — w’hat matters it w'hat they say ? I know what 
Jack Melville will say. They won’t get much comfort out of 
him. ‘ No one has got two lives ; why shouldn’t he make the 
most of the one he’s got ; why shouldn’t he marry the girl he’s 
fond of ? ’ — that’s about all they’ll get out of him. Polly needn’t 
try to throw the Coriievreak fly over him. W^ell, now% Shena, 
w’hen one thinks of it, w’hat strange creatures people are I 
There’s Corrievreak ; it’s a substantial thing; it’s worth a heap 
of solid money, and it might be made wmrth more ; and there it 
was, offered to -our family, you may say, to keep in our posses- 
sion perhaps for centuries. And what interfered ? Why, an 
impalpable thing like politics ! Opinions — things you couldn’t 
touch w'ith your ten fingers if you tried a month — a mere prC' 
judice on the part of my father — and these solid advantages are 
thrust away. Isn’t it odd ?” 


YOLANDE. 


425 


The abstract question had no interest for Shena Van. 

“ I hope you do not regret it,” she said, rather proudly. 

“Do I speak as if I regretted it? No; not much! It was 
that trip to Carlisle that did it, Shena — that showed me what 
was the right thing to do. And after you left wasn’t I wild 
that I had not had more courage 1 And then Owley became 
more and more intolerable — but I dare say you were the cause 
of it, you know, in part — and then I said to myself, ‘ Well, I 
am off to Aberdeen ; and if Shena has any kind of recollection 
of the old days in her heart, why. I’ll ask her to settle the 
thing at once.’ ” 

“ Yes, but why wouldn’t you let me tell my brother ?” Shena 
Van pleaded. 

“ Telling one would have been telling everybody,” said he, 
promptly, “ and they would have been at their old games. Now, 
you see, it isn’t of the least consequence what they do or say — 
if they tear their hair out it’ll only hurt their own heads. And 
I don’t see why you should worry about that letter. Why 
should you make apologies ? Why should you pretend to be 
sorry — when you’re not ? If it bothers you to write the letter, 
send a copy of this morning’s Scotsman ; that’s quite enough. 
Send them all this morning’s Scotsman ; and you needn’t mark 
it ; it will be all the pleasanter surprise for them. When they’ve 
finished with the leading articles, and the news, and the criti- 
cisms of tbe picture-exhibitions, and when they’ve looked to see 
how many more ministers of the Gospel have been Avriting letters 
and quarrelling like Kilkenny cats, then they’ll stray on to a 
nice little paragraph — ‘What! — St. Giles's Church — Archibald 
Leslie to Janet Stewart !' — oh, snakes !” 

“ But you wrote to your people, Archie,” Shena Van said, 
looking Avistfully at the sheet of note-paper that she had in vain 
endeavored to fill with apologies and appeals for pardon. 

“ Well, yes, I did,” the Master of Lynn admitted, Avith a pecu- 
liar smile. “ I could not resist the temptation. But you mis- 
take' altogether, Shena, if you imagine that it was to make 
apology that I wrote. Oh no ; it was not that ; it Avas only to 
convey information. It was my filial duty that prompted me to 
write. Besides, I wished the joyful tidings to reach Aunty Tabby 
as soon as possible — oh, don’t you make any mistake, Shena — 
she’s worth a little consideration — she has a little money of her 
OAvn — oh yes, she may do something for us yet!” 

“ I don’t like to hear you talk of your relations in that way, 
Archie,” said Shena Van, rather sadly, “ for if you think of 


426 


YOLAiVDE. 


them like that, Low are you ever to he reconciled to them ? And 
you told me it would he all right.” 

“And so it will, my dear girl,” said he, good-naturedly, “i^nd 
this is the only way to put it all right. When they see that the 
thing is done, then they’ll come to their senses. Polly will he 
the first. She always makes the best of matters — she’s a good 
little soul. And his lordship won’t do anything desperate; he 
won’t he such a fool as to drive me to raise money on my expcc' 
tations; and he’ll soon he glad enough to have me hack at Lynn 
— the people there ’want some looking after, as he knows. Be- 
sides, he ought to he in a good-humor just now — both the forest 
and Allt-nam-ha let already, and Ardengreanan as good as taken.” 

“ But I must write — I must write,” said Shena, regarding the 
paper again. 

“ Well, it’s quite simple,” said he. “ Tell your brother that, 
w'hcn you left Aberdeen, instead of going either to Inverness or 
to Strathaylort, you came here to Edinburgh, and were married, 
as per enclosed cutting from the Scotsman. The cause ? — ur- 
gent family reasons, which wull he explained. Then you ask 
him to he good enough to communicate this news to your sister, 
and also to send a message to the Manse; hut as for apologizing, 
or anything of that kind. I’d sec them hanged first. Besides, 
it isn’t good policy. It isn’t whse to treat your relatives like 
that, and lead them to think they have a right to remonstrate 
w ith you. It’s your business ; not theirs. You have quite ar- 
rived at years of discretion, my darling Shena; and if you don’t 
wumt people to he forever jumping on you — that is, metaphori- 
cally, I mean — stop it at the beginning, and with decision. 
Here,” said he, suddenly getting u*p and going over to the wult- 
ing-tahle, “ I’ll write the letter for you !” 

“Oh no, Archie !” she cried, interposing. “You will only 
make them angry.” 

“My dear child,” said he, pushing her aw’ay, “honey and mo- 
lasses are a fool to what I can write when I want to be civil; 
and at the present moment I should like to shake hands with the 
wdiole human race.” 

So he wrote the letter, and wTote it very civilly, too, and to 
Shena’s complete satisfaction; and then "he said, as he finished 
his coffee, 

“ I don’t think we shall stay long in Paris, Shena. I don’t 
like Paris. You won’t find it half as fine a town to look at as 
this is now. And if you go the threatre, it’s all spectacle and 
ballet; or else it’s the story of a married wmman running away 
with a lover; and that isn’t the kind of thing you ought to seo 


YOLANDE. 


427 


on your wedding-trip, is it? There’s no saying how far tlie 
force of example might go; and you see you began your wedded 
life by running away.” 

“It was none of my doing, Archie,” said Shcna Van, 
quickly. 

“No,” said he. “I think we’ll come back to London soon; 
for everybody will be there at the opening of the session, and [ 
want to introduce you to some friends of mine. Jack Melville 
says he is going up, and he pretends it’s about his electric light- 
ing performance ; but I suspect it’s more to meet the AVinter- 
bournes, when they come back from abroad, than to see the 
directors of the company. If they do adopt his system, I 
hope he’ll make them fork out, for he is not overburdened with 
the gear of this wicked world any more than myself. Faith, I 
wish my Right Honorable papa would hand along the cost of 
that special license, for it was all his doing. But never mind, 
Shena; we’ll tide along somehow; and when we come back 
from our trip, if they are still showing their teeth, like a badger 
in a hole, I know what I’ll do — we’ll go over to the West of 
Ireland for the salmon-fishing, and we can live cheaply enough 
in one of the hotels there, either on the Shannon or out in Con- 
nemara. How would you like that?” 

“ Oh, I should be deliglited !” said Shena Van, with the dark, 
wonderful blue eyes filled with pleasure. “ For Fm afraid to go 
back to Inverness, and that’s the truth, Archie.” 

“ Oh, but we shall have to go back to Inverness, all in good 
time,” said he, “and it won’t do to be afraid of anything. And 
I think- you’ll hold your own, Shena,” he added, approvingly. 
“ I think you’ll hold your own.” 

And so at this point we may bid good-by to these adventurers 
(who seemed pleased enough with such fortune as had befallen 
them), and come along to another couple who, a few weeks 
later, were walking one evening on the terrace of the House of 
Commons. It was a dusky and misty night, though it was mild 
for that time of the year; the heavens were overclouded; the 
lights on Westminster Bridge and on the Embankment did little 
to dispel the pervading gloom, though the quivering golden re- 
flections on the black river looked picturesque enough; and in 
this dense obscurity such Members and their friends as had 
come out from the heated atmosphere of tlie House to have a 
chat or a cigar on the terrace were only indistinguishable figures 
who could not easily be recognized. They, for the most part, 
were -seated on one or other of the benches standing about, or 
idly leaning against the parapet; but these two kept walking 


428 


YOLANDE, 


up and down in front of the vast and shadowy building and the 
gloomy windows, and they were arm-in-arm. 

“ A generation hence,” said one of them, looking at the murky 
scene all around them, “ Londoners won’t believe that their city 
could ever have been as black a pit as this is.” 

‘‘ But this generation will see the change, will it not ?” said his 
companion, whose voice had just a trace of a foreign accent in 
it. “You are going to make the transformation, are you not?” 

“ I ?” said he, laughing. “ I don’t know how many are all 
trying at it ; and whoever succeeds in getting what is really 
wanted will be a wonder-worker, I can tell you. What’s more, 
he will be a very rich man. You don’t seem to think about 
that, Yolande.” 

“ About w'hat, then ?” 

“ Why, that you are going to marry a very poor man.” 

“ No, I do not care at all,” she said, or rather what she did 
say was, “Ido not care aytall” — despite the tuition of her 
father. 

“ That is because ymu don’t understand what it means,” said 
he, in a kindly way. “ You have had no possibility of knowing. 
You can’t have any knowledge of what it is to have a limited 
income — to have to watch small economies, and the like.” 

“ Ah, indeed, then !” said she. “ And my papa always angry 
with me for my economies, and the care and the thrift that the 
ladies at the Chateau exercised always ! ‘ Miser,’ he says to me 

— ‘ miser that you are ! ’ Oh, I am not afraid of being poor — 
not aytall !” 

“ I have a chance,” he said, absently. “ So far, indeed, I have 
been lucky. And the public are hanging back just now ; they 
have seen so many bad experiments that they won’t rush at any 
one system without examining the others ; it’s the best one that 
will win in the end. But it’s only a chance, after all. Yolande,” 
said he, “ I wonder if I was born to be your evil genius ? It was 
1 who sent you away from your own home — where you were 
happy enough ; and you must have suffered a terrible anxiety all 
that time — I can see the change in you.” 

“ Oh, but I will not have you speak like that,” said she, putting 
her other hand on his arm. “ How can you speak like that to 
me when it is night and day that I can not tell you how grateful 
1 am to you ? Yes ; it was you who sent me ; if I had not loved 
/ou before, I should love you for that now — with my whole 
lieart. If you had known — if you had seen — what jov it was 
to my poor mother that I was with her for that time — that we 
were together — and she happy and cheerful for the first time for 


YOLAiYDE. 


429 


many, many sad years — if you had seen the gladness in licr face 
every morning wlien she saw me — tlien perhaps you would have 
understood. And if I had not gone to her — if 1 had never 
known her — if she had never had that little happiness — would 
that not have been a sad thing ? That she might have died 
among strangers — -and T, her own daughter, amusing myself with 
friends and idleness and pleasure somewhere — it is too terrible 
to think of ! And who prevented that % It is not my gratitude 
only, it is hers also that I give you, that I offer you. You made 
her happy for a time, when she had need of some kindness ; and 
you can not expect that I shall forget it.” 

“ You are too generous,” he said. “ It is a small matter to 
offer advice. I sacrificed nothing; the burden of it fell on 
you. But I will be honest with yon. I guessed that you 
would have anxiety and trouble ; but I knew you would be brave 
enough to face it ; and I knew, too, that you would not after- 
ward regret whatever you might have come through, and I 
know that you don’t regret it now. I know you well enough 
for that.” 

“ And some day,” she said, “ or perhaps through many and 
many years, I will try to show you what value I put on your 
opinion of me ; and if I do not always deserve that you think 
well of me, at least I shall try to deserve it — can I promise 
more ?” 

At this moment John Shortlands made his appearance; he 
had come out from the smoking-room, with a cigar in liis mouth. 

“Look here, Yolande,” he said. “I suppose you don’t want 
to hear any more of the debate ?” 

“ No, no,” she said, quickly. “ It is stupid — stupid. Why do 
they not say what they mean at once— not stumbling here, stum- 
bling there, and all the others talking among themselves, and as 
if everybody were going asleep ?” 

“ It’s lively enough sometimes, I can assure you,” he said. 
“ However, your father thinks it’s no use j^our waiting any 
longer. He’s determined to wait until the division is taken ; and 
no one knows now when it will be. He says you’d better go 
back to your hotel — I suppose Mr. Melville will see you so 
far. Weil,” said he, addressing Jack Melville, “ what do you 
think of the dinner Winterbourne got for you ?” 

“ I wasn’t thinking of it much,” Jack Melville said. “ I was 
more interested in the Members. I haven’t been near the House 
of Commons since I used to come up from Oxford for the boat- 
race.” 

“ H®w’s the companv ofoiuof ?” 


430 


YOLANDE. 


“ Pretty vvcl], I tliink ; but of course Pve uotliiug to do witli 
lliat. I have uo capital to invest.” 

“Except brains; and sometimes that’s as good as bank-notes. 
Well,” said Shorthinds, probably remembering an adage about the 
proper number for company, “Eli bid ye good-night — for I’m 
going back to the mangle — I may take a turn at it mj^self.” 

So Jack Melville and Yolande together set out to find their 
vay through the corridors of the House out into the night- 
v’oiid of London; and when they were in Palace-yard Yo- 
landc said she would just as soon walk up to the hotel where 
her father and herself were staying, for it was no farther away 
than Albemarle Street. 

“Did you hear what Mr. Shorthands said?” she asked, 
brighly. “ Perhaps, after all, then, there is to bo no romance ? 
I am not to be like the heroine of a book, who is approved 
because she marries a poor man ? I am not to make any such 
noble sacrifice ?” 

“Don’t be too sure, Yolande,” said he, good-naturedly. 
“Companies arc kittle cattle to deal with; and an inventors 
business is still more uncertain. There is a chance, as I say ; 
but it is only a chance. However, if that fails, there will be 
something else. I am not afraid.” 

“ And I — am I afraid?” she said, lightly “ No ! Because I 
know more than you — oh, yes, a great deal more than you. 
And perhaps I should not speak ; for it is a secret — no, no, it is 
not a secret, for you have guessed it — do you not know that 
you have Monaglen ?” 

He glanced at her to see whether she was merely making fun ; 
but he saw in her eyes that she was making an actual — if 
amused — inquiry. 

“Well, Yolande,” said he, “of course I know of Mrs. Bell’s 
fantasy; but I don’t choose to build my calculations for the 
future on a fantasy.” 

“ But,” said l^olande, rather shyly, “ if you were told it was 
done ? If Monaglen were already yours ? If the lawyers had 
done — oh, everything — all settled — what then ?” 

“ ‘ What then ? ’ I would refuse to take it. But it is absurd. 
Mrs. Bell can not be such a madwoman. I know she is a very 
kind woman; and there is in her nature a sort of romantic at- 
tachment to my father’s family — which I rather imagine she 
has cultivated by the reading of those old songs. Still she can 
not have done anything so wild as that.” 

“She has bought Monaglen,” Yolande said, without looking 


YOLANDE. 


431 


“Very well. I thought she would do that — if she heard it 
was in the market. Very well. Why shouldn’t she go there 
— and send for her relatives, if she has any — and be a grand 
lady there ? I have met more than one grand lady who hadn’t 
half her natural grace of manner, nor half her kindliness of 
heart.” 

“ It is very sad, then,” said Yolande (who was afraid to drive 
him into a more decided and definitive opposition). “ Here is 
a poor woman who has the one noble ideal — the dream of her 
life — it has been her hope and her pleasure for many and many 
a year ; and when it comes near to completion — no — there is 
an obstacle — and the last obstacle that one could have imagined! 
Ah, the ingratitude of it 1 It lias been her romance ; it has 
been the charm of her life. Slio has no husband, no children. 
She has, I think, not any relation left. And because you are 
proud, you do not care that you disappoint her of the one hope 
of her life — that you break’ her heart ?” 

“ Ah, Yolande,” said he, with a smile, “ Mrs. Bell has got hold 
of you with her old Scotch songs — she has been walking you 
through fairyland, and your reason has got perverted. What 
do you think people would say if I were to take away this poor 
woman’s money from her relatives — or from her friends and ac- 
quaintances, if she has no relatives \ It is too absurd. If I were 
the promoter of a swindling company, now, I could' sharp it out 
of her that way ; that would be all right, and I should remain an 
honored member of society ; but this won’t do — this won’t do at 
all. You may be as dishonest as you like, and so long as you 
don’t give tlic law a grip on you, and so long as you keep rich 
enough, you can have plenty of public respetet; but you can’t 
afiord to become ridiculous. No, no, Yolande; if Mrs. Bell has 
bought Monaglen, let her keep it. I hope she will install herself 
there, and play Lady Bountiful — she can do that naturally 
enough ; and when she has had her will of it, then, if she likes 
to leave it to me at her death, I shall be her obliged and humble 
servant. Butin the mean time, my dearest Yolande, as you and 
1 have got to face the world together, I think we’d better have 
as little fantasy around us as possible — except the fantasy of 
affection, and the more of that we have the better.” 

When they got to the hotel they paused outside the glass 
door to say good-by. 

“ Good-night, dearest Yolande.” 

“Good-night, dear Jack.” 

And then she looked up at this broad-shouldered, pale, dark 


432 


YOLANDE. 


man, and there was a curious smile in her beautiful, sweet, and 
serious face. 

“ Is it true,” she asked, “ that a woman always has her own 
way ?” 

“ They say so, at all events,” was the answer. 

. “ And if two women have the same wish and the same hope 
and only one man to say no, then it is still more likely he will . 
be defeated?” 

“ I shouldn’t say he had much chance myself,” Jack Melville 
said. “ But what’s your conundrum, now, sweetheart ?” 

“Then 1 foresee something,” she said. “Yes, I see that we 
shall have to ask Mr. Leslie to be very kind, and to lend us 
Duncan Macdonald for an evening. Oh, not so very far away 
— not so far away as you imagine ; because, you know, when we 
have all gone up to Monaglen House, and we arc all inside, going 
over the rooms — and looking here and there with a great curios- 
ity and interest — or perhaps we are absented in the dining-room, 
having a little chat together — then what will you say if all at 
once you heard the pipes outside, and what do you think Dun- 
can will play, on such an evening as that, if not Melville's Wei 
come Home 


THK ENO, 


ENOCH SORQAN’S SONS’ 



Miiiii 


CLEANS 

WINDOWS. 
MARBLE, 

KNIVES. 

POLISHES 

TIN-WARE, 
IRON,STEEL.&C. 


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Rev Morgan Dix, on every Friday evening. The reverend gentleman dhcussSi 
Womans position and duties, and, on the succeeding fenuday eveuino- Mrs 
Blake replied with much wit and energy to his strictures on her sex The w de' 
spread interest excited by this intellectual du 1 has le.cd to the publication of 
Mrs. Blake’s lectures, in book form, under the title “Woman's Piace To-Day ’’ 

READ WHAT THE CRITICS SAY: 

“These lectures are admirably written; and whether yvc agree with the 
opinions of the lecturer or not, deserve very serious attention A merican 
Liter-ary Cuukcoman. 

“The brighest book from the pen of a woman.’’— The N. Y. World. 

“Mrs. Blake has written a reply to the Rev. Morgan Dix, which it will dcheht 
evciy lover of fair play to read. Although shegiows with righteous indignation 
she TiGV6r looses her ternper. If shec^llslier opponent renuects-ble relic of 
the Middle Ages, it is not in anger but in sorrow. In her argument she routs 
the r<-verend gentleman, hip and thigh, with the whip of her wit vith the 
broadside of fact, with the energy of common sense, she drives him ’flying be 
fore her. It is adelightful tournament and every man in the laud oueht to 
witness it. ’—The Philadelphia Press. ^ 


“There is a very forcible presentation of arguments, not new, but none the 
less strong for that reason, in favor of afiiordiug a field for the rtstless enereies 
of woman. The book is well worth reading, and is inslractive in some points 
as well as entertaining.’’- Walter Edoar McCann in Baltimore News. 

“ The style is good.’’-R. H. Stoddard in Mail and Express. 


“ Her replies to the arguments and assertions of Dr. Dix are keen and happy 
showing that she has no little vigor of mind and dialectic Bkill.’'—NKw Yciiic 
Star. 


“ Woman’s Place To Day” is a brilliant, humorous, witty and logical defence 
of woman s rights.*''— Cincinnati Transcript. 

“ In speaking of Dr. Dix, it seems that the reverend gentleman has v^rv littl« 
left of him by the quick witled and keen-eyed woman; indeed if Dr Dix h is 
habitually made staiemetts open to similar refutals, and the women he has 
known have been ready with M-s. B’aketo show up his mistakes it 13 little to 
wonder that he advocates a sileucc on their part. ’— The Wasuington Repuu- 
Lie* 

For sale by all Newsdealers a^d Booksellers The trade supplied by the 
American News Company and Branches. ^ 


JOHN W. LOVELL & CO., 


14 & 16 'Vesay St., New York. 


“A 6BEAT WOEK.” 


LABOR and CAPITAL, 

— A— 

NEW MONETARY SYSTEM, 

By EDWARD KELLOGG. 

Edited by his Daugiiteb. Mary Kellogg Putnam. 


1 VoL., 12mo., Handsome Paper Cover, No. Ill of Lovell’s 

Library, 20 Cents. 


“Labor and Capital’’ is a remarkable book. It shows how and why 
CapilalUts get so large a part of the yearly productions of labor, and why the 
producers get so small a part. The lirst edition of this work was pnblishtd in 
1S48, under the title of “Labor and Ollier Capital; or, the rights of each se- 
cured and the wrongs of both eradicated.” At that time the publication of 
such a work by a rich and prosperous merchant of New York created cousider- 
able excitement and discus.-ion among political economists. The author was 
a man of deep perception, and, in the state of the country, he foresaw with 
clearnesti all that has trauspi ed in our financial history, during the thiny 
years. If the system elaborated by Mr. Kellogg had been fully, instead of 
partially, adopted by Congress, the various steps which have been taken in the 
application of his theory v/ould all have been antic pated. Mr. Kellogg be- 
lieved that the Government of the United States should issue all money or 
currency that should be allowed logo into circulation. Tiie present United 
States Treasury Note is a partiai exemplification of this plan. The whole 
work has such an important bearing upon the financial and political stale of 
the country to day that the publishers are ju'^tificd in issuing it in a cheap 
form, thus placing it within the reach of all who are iuteiested in the iiidus- 
trial pioblem, 

A Characteristic Letter From 

WENDELL PHILLIPS, 

Boston, May 25th, 18811. 

Mr. John W, Lovell, 

Dear Sir I am (am I ?) indebted to you for a copy of your reprin!; of 
“Labor and Capital,” by Kellogg; one of the ablest and most convincing 
statements of the Financial Problem ever made; and proposing with unanswer- 
able argument, the easiest, if not the only remedy for our troubles and dangers. 
I am glad that the loving uevotion and rare abiliiy of his daughter has made 
the work so perfect and clear in statement She aeserves well of the students 
of this question and has their gratitude. 

Yours respectfully, 

Wbndell Phillips. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent post paid on receipt of 
25 cents, by the publishers, 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

14 & 16 Vesey Street, New York. 



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A New Lease of Life 20 

By Mrs. ALEXANDER. 

*The Wooing O’t, Part 1 15 

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By F. ANSTEY. 

♦Vice Versa; or, a Lesson to 
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By sir SAMUEL BAKER. 

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♦Lady Audley's Secret 20 

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*Shandon Belis *20 

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--t 


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By J. FENIMORE COOPER. 

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The Spaciish Nun 10 

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*0 iver Twist 20' 

Pickwick Papers, Part 1 20 

Part II 20 

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“••Child’s History of England ^ 

By “THE DUCHESS.” 

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“•“Molly Bawn 20 

“•“Phyllis ^ 

M )nica 10 

“•“Mrs. Geoffrey 20 

“•‘.\iry Fairy Lilian 20 

“•“Beauty’s Daughters 20 

“•“ Faith and Un faith 20 

“•“Loys. Lord Beresford 20 

Moonshine and Marguerites 10 

By Lord DUFFERIN. 

Letters from High Latitudes 20 

By GEORGE ELIOT. 

“•“Adam Bede, Part 1 15 

“ “ Part II 15 

Amos Barton 10 

Silas Marner 10 

“•“Romola Parti 15 

“ Part II 15 

By F. W. FARRAR, D.D. 

“•“Seekers After God 20 

“•“ Early Days of Christianity, Part I. . .20 
“ "■ “ “ Part II.. 20 

By JOHN FRAMKLIN. 

Ameline du Bourg 35 

By OCTAVE FEUILLET. 

A Marriage in High Life 20 

By EMILE GABORIAU. 

“•“The Lerouge Case 20 

“•“Monsieur Lecoq, Part 1 20 

Part II 20 

“•“The My'Steryof Orcival 20 

. “•“Other People’s Money 20 

“•“In Peril of his Life 20 

*The Gilded Clique 20 

, Promisee of Marriage 10 I 

I — 


By HENRY GEORGE. 
Progress and Poverty 20 

By CHARLES GIBBON. 

“•“The Golden Shaft 20 

By OLIVER GOLDSMITH. 

Vicar of Wakefield 10 

By Mrs. GORE. 

The Dean’s Daughter 20 

By JAMES GRANT. 

“•“The Secret Despatch 20 

By THOMAS HARDY. 

Two on a Tower 20 

By PAXTON HOOD. 

Life of Cromwell 15 

By LEONARD HENLEY 
“•“Life of Washington 20 

By JOSEPH HATTON. 

“•“Clytie 20 

“••Cruel Loudon 20 

By LUDOVIC HALEVY. 

L’Abbe Constantin 20 

By ROBERT HOUDIN. 


The Tricks of tbe Greeks Unveiled. ..20 
By HORRY AND WEEMS. 


“•“Life of Marion 20 

By Miss HARRIE T JAY. 

The D irk Colleen 20 

By MARION HARLAND. 
Housekeeping and Homemaking 15 

By STANLEY HUNTLEY. 
“•“Spoopendyke Papers 20 

By WASHINGTON IRVING. 
“♦“The Sketeh Book 20 

By SAMUEL JOHNSON. 
Rasselas Iff 

By JOHN P. KENNEDY. 

“•“Horse Shoe Robinson, Part 1 15 

“ “ “ Part II 15 

By EDWARD KELLOGG, 

Labor anci Capital 20 

By grace KENNEDY. 

Dunallen, Parti 15 

“ Part ll 15 

By CHAS. KINGSLEY. 

“♦“The Hermits. 20 

“•“Hypatia, Part I 16 

“ Part II 16 



By Miss MAKGARET LEE. 
Divorce 

By henry W, LONGFELLOW. 


♦Hyperion 20 

*Out;o-Mer 20 

By SAMUEL LOVER. 

The Happy Man 10 

By lord LYTTON. 

The Coming Race 10 

Leila, or the Siege of Granada 10 

Earnest Maltravers 20 

The Haunted House, and Calderon 

the Courtier 10 

Alice; a sequel to Earnest Maltraver8.20 

A Strange Siory 20 

♦Last Days of Pompeii 20 

Zanoni 20 

N.'ght and Morning, I^rt 1 15 

“ “ Part II 15 

Paul Clifford 20 

Lady of Lyons 10 

Money 10 

Richelieu 10 

By H. C. LUKENS, 

♦Jets and Flashes 20 

By Mrs. E. LYNN LINTON, 
lone Stewart 20 

By W. E. Mx\YO. 

The Berber 20 

By a. MATHEY. 

Duke of Kandos 20 

The Two Duchesses 20 

By JUSTIN H. MCCARTHY. 

An Outline of Irish History 10 

By EDWARD MOTT. 

♦Pike County h'olks 20 


By max MULLER. 


I By JAMES PAYN. 

20 , *Tbicker than Water 20 

By CHARLES READE. 

Single Heart and Double Face 10 

By REBECCA FERGDS REDCLIFF. 
Freckles 20 

By Sir RANDALL B. ROBERTS. 

Harry Holbrooke 20 

By Mrs. ROWSON. 

Charlotte Temple.. 10 

By W. CLARK RUSSELL. 

♦A Sea Queen 20 

By GEORGE SAND. 

The Tower of Percemont 2 q 

By Mrs. V7. A. SAVILLE. 


Social Etiquette 15 

By MICHAEL SCOTT. 

♦Tom Crirgle’s Log 20 

By EUGENE SCRIBE. 

Fleurette 20 

By J. PALGRAVE SIMPSON. 
Haunted Hearts 10 

By gold win SMITH, D.C.L. 

False Hopes 15 

By dean swift 

Gulliver's Travels 20 

By W. M. THACKERAY. 

*Vauity Fair, Part 1 15 

*■ “ “ II 15 

By Judge: D. P. THOMPSON. 
♦The Green Mountain Boys 20 


*India, what can she teach us? 20 

By Miss MULOCK. 

♦John Halifax 20 

By R. HEBER newton 

The Right and Wrong Uses of the 
Bible 


By THEODORE TILTON. 


Tempest Tossed, Parr .20 

“ Part II... 20 

By JULES VERNE. 

*800 Leagues on the Amazon 10 

♦The Cryptogram If 


By W. E. NORRIS. 
♦No New Thing 

By OUIDA. 

♦Wanda, Part I 

Piirt II 

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“ “ Part II 

1 By Mrs. OLIPHANT. 

♦The L.adie8 Liiidores 

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By GEORGE WALKER. 

OQ *Tho Three Spaniards 20 

By W. M. WILLLAMS. 

55 Science in Short Chapters 20 

15 By Mrs. HENRY WOOD. 


OQ *East Lynne 20 

I MISCELLANEOUS. 

20 I Paul and Virginia lo 

j Margaret and iier Bridesmaids 2-) 

I Th ' (^neen of the County 

,20 ' IViTOii Munch .U'Cn jq 


J 


Robin 


SOMMER REA 



Portia, 

Airy Fairy Lillian, 
Molly Bawn, 

Phyllis, 

Mrs. Geoffrey, 
Loys, Lord Beresford, i 

By THE DUCHESS. 


Printed on heavy calendered paper, from large clear type. 

Cloth, Gold and Black, - - - $1.00. 

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and beautiful descriptive writing. 

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RECENTLY PUBLISHED: 

UNDERGROUND RUSSIA: 

Revolutionary Profiles and Sketches from Life. 

By STEPNIAK, formerly Editor of “Zemlia i Volia” (Land and 
Liberty). With a Preface by PETER LAVROPF. Tran.'^lated 
from the Italian. 1 vol. 12mo., paper cover, Lovell’s Library, 
No. 173 price 20 cents. 

“The book is as yet unique in literature: it is a priceless contribution to 
our knowledge of Russian thought and feeling; as a true and faithful reliection 
of certain a«p'’cts of, perhaps, the most tremendous politicial movement m 
history, it seems destined to become a standard work.”— Athen.$:um. 


An Outline of the History of Ireland, 

Prom the Earliest Times to the present day. 

By JUSTIN H. McCARTHY. 1 vol. 12mo., Lovell’s Library 
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involves in its production the warm sympathies, the passionate enthusiasm, and 
the vivid brilliancy of style which one is glad to welcome from the son of the 
distinguished journalist and author —Christian World 

‘ All Irishmen who lOve their country, and all candid Englishmen, ought to 
welcome Mr Justin II. McCarthy'slitile volume— ’An Outline of Irish History. ' 
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ago pointed out. all cries for the remedy of specific Insh grievances are now 
merged in the dangerons demand for naMonality, will do well to nad Mr 
McCarthy s little book. It is eloquently written, and carries us from the earlio^•t 
legends to the autumn of 1882. The charm of the stylo and the impetuonsness 
in the fl'^w of the narrative are refreshing and stimulating, and, as regards his 
tone impartiality. Mr McCarthy is far rriore just thau is Mr.Froude. ’— Graphic. 

“A brightly written and intelligent account of the leading events in Irish 
annals. . , Mr, McCarthy has performed a difficult task with commendable 

good spirit and irapm’tiality ’ — W''hitehall Review 

‘To those who enjoy exceptionally brilliant and vigorous writing, as iveil 
as to those who desire to post themselves up in the Irish question, we cordially 
recommend Mr McCarthy s little book.’ —Evening Hews. 


ENGLISH MEN OF LETTERS. 


Edited by JOHN MOBLEY. 

Published in 12mo. vols., paper covers, price 10 cents each. 


Johnson. By Leslie Stephen. 

Scott, By R li Hutton. 

Gibbon. By J C. Monson. 

Shellet. By J A. SymonJs, 

Home By Prof Huxley. P R S 
Goldsmith. By WTliiaiu Black. 
T)epoe. By W. Minto 
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cf St Paul n 


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Pope By Leslie Stephen. 

Byron By Pro'es>or Nichol. 
Cowpee. By Goldwiu Smith 
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V/oRDS WORTH Bv F W'^ H Myers. 
Milton By Mark Pattison 
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,J 


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Txrs'X’ 2=-crn3iji3:E3:En. 



Or, A LESSON TO FATHERS. 

By F. ANSTEY. 

1 vol., i2mo., cloth gilt, $1.00-. 1 vol., 12mo., paper, 50 cents; also in Lovell’s 

Library, No. 30, 20 cents. 

EXTRACTS FROM NOTICES BY THE PRESS. 

TIIE SATURDAY REVIEW — “ If there ever vas a book made up from 
oegianing to end of laughter, yet not a comic book, or a 'merry’ book, or a 
book of jokes, or a book of pictures, or a jest book, or a tomfool book, but a 
perfectly sober and serious book, in the reading of which a sober man may 
laugh without shame from beginning to end, it is the book called ‘Vice 
Versa; or, a Lesson to Fathers.’. ... We close the book, recommending it 
very earnestly to all fathers, in the first instance, and their sons, nephews, 
uncles, and male cousins next.” 

TIIS PALL MALL GAZETTE. — “ ‘Vice Versa ’ is one of the most 
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and work, while others are holiday making The book is singularly well 

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TIIS ATHEN^UM.— The whole story is told with delightful drollery 
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Mr.Anstey writes well, and in a style admirably suited to his amusing subject.’’ 

THE SPECTATOR.— ‘‘ Mr. Anstey deserves the thanks of everybody for 
showing that there is still a little fuu left in this world .... It is Jong since we 

read anything mere truly humorous We must admit that wc have not 

laughed so heartily over anything for some years bacx as we have over this 
‘ Lesson for Fathers.’ ” 

THE ACADEMY. — “ It is certainly the best book of its kind that has ap- 
peared for a Jong time, and in the way of provoking laughter by certain old- 
fashioned means, which do not involve satire or sarcasm, it has few rivals.” 

THE WORLD.—” The idea of a father and son exchanging their identity 
has suggested itself to many minds before now. It is illustrated in this book 

with surprising freshness, originality and force The book is more than 

wildly comic and amusing-, it is in parts exceedingly pathetic.” 

THE COURT JOURNAL.— ” The story is told with so much wit and 
gayety that wc cannot be deceived in our impression of the future career of F. 
Anstey being destined to attain the greatest success among the most popular 
authors of the day.” 

VANITY FAIR —‘ The book is, in our opinion, the drollest work ever 
written in the English language.’ 

TRUTH. — “ Mr. Anstey has done an exceedingly difficult thing so admira- 
bly and artfully as to conceal its difficulties. Haven’t for years read so irresist- 
ibly humorous a book.” 


NEW YORK: 

JOHI^ W. LOVELL CO., 14 and 16 Vesey Street. 



JUST PUBLZSHSB. 

“OUIDA’S” Last and Greatest Novel, 

WANDA, 

COUNTESS VON SZALRAS. 

By “ OU.IDA,” 

Author of “Under Two Flags,” “Moths,’’ etc. 

1 vol., 12mo., Cloth, $1.03. Paper Cover, 50 Cents. Also in Lovell's Libraut, 
No. 112, 12mo , two parts, each 15 Cents. 

“ The hand has lost none of its matchless cunning. There are the same 
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same intense revelations of seething seas of human anguish, but all toned to 
milder measures. The heart has grown richer and mellower with years, and 
there is more spirit and human insight in ‘Wanda’ t ban in scores of the ‘leading 
novels’ of the day. It is full of touching, tender pathos, and for entertainment 
is a perfect gem'"— Philadelphia Times. 

“ Is one of the gifted ‘Ouida’s’ most brilliant efforts, and will, no doubt, be 
highly appreciated.”— W. Y. Commercial Advertiser . 

“ The latest novel from the pen of the brilliant and prolific ‘Ouida.’ It is 
a powerful and fascinating work of fiction, deeply inter sting, with excellent 
character portrayal, and written in that sparkling style for which ‘Ouida.’ is 
famous. It deserves to take rank by the side of the best of hi r previous novo’s, 
and will, undoubtedly, be eagerly sought by her many admirers.”— yVashiuejton 
Post. 

“This is a Russian story, and of unusual interost.” — St. Louis Pepublican. 

“ It is in her best style ” — i’rof/rcss. 

“ The pen that wrote ‘Strathmore,’ ‘Signa,’ etc., could produce nothing 
dull. The authoress knows how to warm the feelings and intensify passion; 
her plots are all fascinating and of absorbing interest, and ‘Wanda’ will be 
found to sustain the brilliant reputation of its writer.” — Philadelphia Chronicle- 
Herald. 

UNIFORM WITH ABOVE. 

UNDER TWO FLAGS, 

By “ OUIDA, 

1 vol., 12mo., Cloth, Gilt, $1.00. Paper Covers, 50 Cents. Also in Lovell’s 
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A Flew Novel by the Author of “MRS. GEOFFREY.” 

LOYS, LORD BERESFORO. 

By The “ DUCHESS.” 

Author of “Molly Bawn,” “ Faith and Unfaith,” “ Mrs. Geoffrey “ Portia,” 

etc. 

1 vol., 12mo., Cloth, Gilt, $100. Paper Covers, 59 Cents. Also in Lovell’s 
Library, No. 126 , 20 Cents. 

“ The same characteristics that have made all the novels of this author 
BO immensely popular pervade this last story— life, sparkle, lovely character 
sketching, richly dramatic (high comedy) bituations, and the raciest kind of 
colloquial style. 

JOH.*^ W. LOVELL COMPANY, 

Publishers, 14 10 Vesey St., New York. 


LOVELL’S LIBRARY— CATALOGUE 


185. Mysterious Island, Pt II. 15 
Mysterious Island, Ptill. 15 

186. Tom Brown at Oxford, 

2 Parts, each 15 

187. Thicker than Water 20 

188. In Silk Attire 20 

189. Scottish Chiefs, Part I 


Scottish Chiefs, Part II.20.^p43. 


190. 

191. 

192. 
*93- 

194. 

I9S- 

196. 

197 


200 . 

201 . 


203 

204 
205, 
206 

.■207 


Willy ReiUy 20 

The Nautz Family 20 

Great Expectations 20 

Hist.of Pendennis,Pt I.. 20 
Hist.of Pendennis,Pt II 20 
Widow Bedott Papers ..20 
Daniel Deronda,Part I.. 20 
Daniel Deronda, Part II. 20 

Altiora Peto 20 

By the Gate of the Sea. 15 

198. Tales of a Traveller 20 

199. Life and Voyages of Co- 

lumbus, 2 Parts, each. 20 
The Pilgrim’s Progress . . 20 
MartinChuzzlewit,P’rt L20 
Martin Chuzzlewit,P’t 1 1. 20 

202. Theophrastus Such 10 

Disarmed 15 

Eugene Aram 20 

The Spanish Gypsy, &C.20 

Cast up by the Sea 20 

Mill on the Floss, Part 1. 15 
Mill on the Floss, P’t 1 1 . 1 5 

208. Brother Jacob, etc 10 

209. The Executor 20 

210. American Notes 15 

211. The Newcomes, Part I.. 20 
The Newcomes, Part 11. 20 

212. The Privateersman 20 

213. The Three Feathers 20 

214. Phantom Fortune 20 

215. The Red Eric 20 

216. Lady Silverdale’s Sweet- 

heart 10 

217. The Four Macnicol’s. ..10 

2 1 8. M r . Pisistratus Brow n , M . P. i o 

219. Dombeyand Son, Part I.20 
Dombey and Son, Part II. 20 

Book of Snobs 10 

Fairy Tales, Illustrated. .20 

The Disowned 20 

Little Dorrit, Part 1 20 

Little Dorrit, Part 1 1 .... 20 
Abbotsford and New- 

stead Abbey 10 

Oliver Goldsmith, Blac'.: 10 

226. The Fire Brigade. .... ..20 

227. Rifle and Hound in Cey- 
lon 20 

228. Our Mutual Friend, P’t I.20 
OurMutualFriend,P’t II. 20 

Paris Sketches 15 

Belinda 20 

Nicholas Nickleby.P’t I.20 
NicholasNickleby,P’t 11. 20 

232. Monarch of Mincing 

Lane 20 

233. Eight Years’ Wanderings 

in Ceylon 20 

234. Pictures from Italy 15 

23 5. Adventures of Philip, Pt I.15 
Adventures of Philip, Pt II. 15 

236. Knickerbocker History 

of New York 20 


244 

245 

246. 

247. 

248. 


220. 

221. 

222. 

223. 

224. 

225. 


229 

230^ 

231 


237. The Boy at Mugby 10 

238. The Virginians, Part I..20 
The Virginians, Part II. 20 

239. Erling the Bold 20 

240. Kenelm Chillingly 20 

241. Deep Down 20 

242. Samuel Brohl & Co 20 

Gautran 20 

Bleak House, Part I 20 

Bleak House, Part 1 1 . ..20 
What Will He Do With 

It ? 2 Parts, each 20 

SketchesofYoungCouples. 10 

Devereux 20 

Life of Webster, Pait I.15 
Life of Webster, Pt. II. 15 

249. The Crayon Papers 20 

250. The Caxtons, Part I .... 15 
The Caxtons, Part II ... 15 

251. Autobiography of An- 

thony Trollope 20 

252. Critical Reviews, etc. ... 10 

253. Lucretia 20 

254. Peter the Whaler 20 

255. Last of the Barons. Pt I.15 
Last of the Barons,Pt.II.i5 

2 56, Eastern Sketches 15 

257. All in a Garden Fair.... 20 

J258. File No. 1 13 20 

^259. The Parisians, Part I...20 
The Parisians, Part II.. 20 

260. Mrs. Darling’s Letters. . .20 

261. Master Humphrey’s 

Clock 10 

262. Fatal Boots, etc 10 

263. The Alhambra 15 

264. The Four Georges 10 

265. Plutarch’s Lives, 5 Pts. Si. 

266. Under the Red Flag 10 

267. TheHaunted House, etc. 10 

268. When the Ship Comes 

Home 10 

269. One False, both Fair.... 20 

270. The Mudfog Papers, etc. 10 

271. My Novel, 3 Parts, each. 20 

272. Conquest of Granada. ..20 

273. Sketches by Boz 20 

274. A Christmas Carol, etc.. 15 

275. lone Stewart 20 

276. Harold, 2 Parts, each. . . 15 

277. Dora Thorne 20 

278. Maid of Athens 20 

279. Conquest of Spain 10 

280. Fitzboodle Papers, etc. . 10 

28:. Bracebridge Hall 20 

2S2. Uncommercial Traveller.20 
2 83 . Roundabout Papers 20 

284. Rossmoyne .20 

285. A Legend of the Rhine, 

etc 10 

286. Cox’s Diary, etc 10 

287. Beyond Pardon 20 

288. Somebody’sLuggage,etc. 10 

289. Godolphin 20 

290. Salmagundi 20 

291. Famous Funny Fellows. 20 

292. Irish Sketches, etc 20 

293. The Battle of Life, etc.. . 10 

294. Pilgrims of the Rhine. . . 15 

295. '* Random Shots 20 

296. Men’s Wives. 10 

397. Mystery of Edwin Drood.zo 


298. Reprinted Pieces 20 

299. Astoria ....20 

300. Novels by Eminent Handsio 

301. Companions of Columbus2o 

302. No Thoroughfare 

303. Character Sketches, etc. 10 

304. Christmas Books 20 

305. A Tour on the Prairies... 10 

306. Ballads 15 

307. Yellowplush Papers 10 

308. Life of Mahomet, Part 1. 15 
Life of Mahomet, Pt. II. 15 

309. Sketches and Travels in 

London 

310. Oliver Goldsmith, I rving.20 

3 1 1. Captain Bonneville .... 20 

312. Golden Girls 20 

313. English Humorists 15 

314. Moorish Chronicles 10 

315. Winifred Power 20 

316. Great HoggartyDiamond lo 

317. Pausanias 15 

318. The New Abelard 20 

319. A Real Queen 20 

320. The Rose and the Ring.20 

321. Wolfert’s Roost and Mis- 

cellanies, by Irving. • • • lo 

322. Mark Seawo’rth 20 

323. Life of Paul Jones 20 

324. Round the World 20 

325. Elbow Room 20 

326. The Wizard’s Son 25 

327. Harry Lorrequer 20 

328. How It All Came Round.20 

329. Dante Rosetti’s Poems. 20 

330. The Canon’s Ward 20 

331. Lucile, by O. Meredith. 20 

332. Every Day Cook Book.. 20 

333. Lays of Ancient Rome . . 20 

334. Life of Bums 20 

335. The Young Foresters. . .20 

336. John Bull andHis Island 20 

337. Salt Water, by Kingston. 20 

338. The Midshipman 20 

339. Proctor's Poems 20 

340. Clayton’s Rangers 20 

341. Schiller’s Poems >20 

342. Goethe’s Faust 20 

343. Goethe’s Poems 20 

344. Life of Thackeray 10 

345. Dante’s Vision of Hell, 
Purgatory and Paradise.. 20 

346. An Interesting Case.... 20 

347. Life of Byron, Nichol. .. 10 

348. Life of Bunyan 

349. Valerie’s Fate 10 

350. Grandfather Lickshingle.20 

351. Lays of the Scottish Ca- 

valiers 20 

352. Willis’ Poems 20 

353. Tales of the French Re- 

volution IS 

3 S4. Loom and Lugger ...... 20 

355. More Leaves from a Life 

in the Highlands 15 

356. Hygiene of the Brain. ..25 

357. Berkeley the Banker. . . .20 

358. Homes Abroad 15 

359. Scott’s Lady of the Lake, 

with notes.. ao 

360. Modem Christianity a 
civilized Heathenismit tits 



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